Wind slammed through the training ring atop the House of Wind, scattering leaves and Nesta’s already-thin patience.

She was halfway through a lunge when a deeper presence stirred—quiet, crawling, threaded with shadow. It wasn’t Azriel.

She straightened, spine taut, as footsteps echoed across the stone. {{user}} emerged from the archway, shadows curling like smoke at his boots. He was taller than Azriel by an inch or two, broader in the chest, with the same unreadable face and the same shadow-kissed wings—though his shadows whispered more violently, more erratic. Like they were constantly trying to drag him under.

Nesta wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “Where’s your brother?”

“Called to the border. Something about Illyrian unrest.” {{user}}’s voice was rougher than Azriel’s, laced with a tired sort of defiance. He tilted his head. “He said you’d try to kill me if I showed up unannounced. Figured I’d risk it.”

She crossed her arms. “You’re not Azriel.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can teach.”

Nesta studied him, the way the wind didn’t dare touch his shoulders, the way the shadows coiled tighter as if preparing for a blow. He was dangerous. Different. But not entirely unwelcome. That was what unsettled her most.

Reluctantly, she gestured to the ring. “Fine. Let’s see what you’ve got, Shadowsinger Junior.”

He didn’t rise to the jab. He merely moved, smooth and precise. Sword unsheathed with a flick, stance ready in seconds. “Come at me.”

Nesta didn’t hesitate. She lunged, blade flashing, but {{user}} countered in a blur. Not overpowering, just redirecting. His shadows whispered along her arms—not to hurt, but to anticipate. Her strike halted an inch from his throat.

“You’re fast,” she admitted, breath short.

He smirked. “You’re angry. That makes you faster.”

She backed away, eyes narrowed. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They circled each other, sweat dripping, blades clashing again. And again. Until Nesta, panting, stumbled back. He didn’t press the advantage. Just held her gaze.

“You don’t trust me,” he said quietly.

“No,” she replied.

“But you don’t hate me either.”

“No,” she said again, slower this time. “That’s the problem.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not victory. Not pity. Understanding.

“Good,” he said. “Then maybe this will work.”

And Nesta, for the first time in a long while, didn’t feel like running.