5. Aryn
Aryn
“Watch your left!” Ronan bellows from where he leans over the railing around the training pit. “Oh, for fuck’s… your other left!”
“You aren’t helping,” Cameron wheezes as he barely dodges Elas’s practice sword.
“I already banned you from training me, and if you aren’t…
careful—” He ducks another swing and grunts when the edge of the wooden blade clips his shoulder.
After a few quick steps backward, he points his sword at his mate.
“If you don’t stop being a pain in my ass, I’ll ban you from the training ring altogether. ”
Footsteps thunder across the dirt, and Cameron’s eyes go wide behind his glasses as Elas charges. Ronan lets out a low, throaty growl when Elas corners Cameron and presses the blade to his neck.
“This is useless,” Ronan snaps, pushing off the fence and flinging his arms. “Two weeks. Two fucking weeks is all that golden ass gave us to prepare.”
“It’s only been a day, Ronan,” I say gently. “Cameron will improve with time. You just need to be patient.”
“Patient,” Ronan mutters. “What I need is to take him into the woods and hide him until this ridiculous plan is over. He can’t even see without those damned glasses. Might as well be guarding a blind baby bird.”
“I can hear you,” Cameron gripes from the ring. “Go somewhere else, Ro.”
Ronan’s face falls. “But—”
“No buts!” Cameron shouts, turning to glare fully at him. “You aren’t helping right now!” I bite back a smile at the way Ronan pouts, and Cameron’s eyes swing to me in a clear plea for help.
“Why don’t we work off some of that tension, Ronan?” I offer, giving Cameron a tiny wink. “It wouldn’t hurt either of us to drill some hand-to-hand, and it looks like you could use the stress relief.”
Ronan’s dark brown eyes linger on Cameron for a long beat before he nods and lets me lead him toward the clearing closer to the trees.
Bash and Xeni are curled up under one of the larger ones, with one of my research journals open between them.
Bash is genuinely studying, but Xeni is busy kissing along his neck and grinning at the little shivers he pulls out of him.
A small smile tugs at my lips. For years, I resented Xeni for what he’d done—hated him for sending away one of my only friends.
I couldn’t understand how someone could do that to their mate and willingly live with that kind of emptiness.
I was around the bond long enough to know the physical pain both of them would have suffered while they were apart, but Xeni refused to talk about it.
They were both changed by that time away.
Bash is harder now, though the softness still lives inside him.
He’s more cautious with others, and far less trusting.
I see it in the way his instincts have shifted—how surprise now makes him want to fight instead of run.
I can’t help but wonder how much of that comes from the company he kept while he was in the city.
My eyes drift to Cato beside him. He’s leaning against a tree and sharpening one of his knives.
His legs are spread wide, taking up space in that unapologetic way of his.
It’s like he needs the world to notice he’s there, even when he has no interest in actual conversation.
His broad shoulders flex as he draws the stone down the blade, and when he lifts it to inspect his work, sunlight glints off the steel.
Cato’s eyes shift to mine, and his brow lifts defensively.
Everyone arrives in this village carrying some mix of disbelief and wariness, but not him.
He strutted in like he was ready to list everything wrong with the place and still acts like it’s a chore to be here instead of the city where he’d rather be.
Ronan’s annoyed huff pulls my attention back. He’s watching Cameron in the ring as he sighs and tugs his shirt off. I do the same, folding the fabric and setting it aside before slipping my necklace over my head and dropping it on top.
“Where did you learn to fight, anyway?” Ronan asks, rolling his neck and stretching his limbs.
“It was part of our schooling growing up,” I explain as I slide the leather strap off my wrist and pull my hair back into a ponytail. “We were taught the art of fighting from a young age, but always as a defensive measure.”
Ronan sizes me up with a slow nod. Our species share many similarities.
It’s believed we had common ancestors long ago, though no written records prove it.
Color is the most obvious difference—their dusty purple stands out against our deeper red.
Anunians are naturally bigger, but my kind, the Dreven, are built with the same lean muscle and rolling grace.
They have three smaller tails where we have one, and their fangs are tiny compared to the canines that curve from my upper jaw.
“We heard tales of your kind growing up, you know,” Ronan says. “The fearsome monk warriors of the mountains.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Monk might be a bit of a stretch. We’re not so pure.”
He gives a conceding nod. “Still, you have to admit it isn’t far off. Devout to the Fates and living in quiet communities hidden in the foothills.”
I lift a brow as we move to the center of the clearing. “You know an awful lot about my people.”
“I grew up in a diverse village,” he explains as we both settle into fighting stances.
“There was a Bemesse elder who took a liking to me as a child.” He lunges without warning, arms wrapping around my waist as he tries to take me down.
I spread my legs to brace and let him shove me back a few steps before I break the hold and dart aside.
He flashes a cocky smirk. “Good reflexes.”
I charge forward before the smile has even left his lips, hooking his neck and throwing my weight back. I spin us as we fall, and Ronan grunts when he lands on his back with me straddling his chest.
“Thanks.”
He bares his teeth and tries to buck me off, but where Ronan fights with raw strength and ferocity, I fight with tactic.
Frustration bubbles out of him in a louder growl as I keep him pinned.
Finally, the anger gives him the burst he needs to throw me.
Dirt flies as my back hits the ground, but I roll and spring to my feet before he can pin me.
“Squirrelly little shit, aren’t you?” he mutters.
I flash him a wider smile and go for another takedown, but Ronan is a fast learner and dodges me this time.
He’s a harder fight than Elas, who relies on his size and brute force.
Ronan is far more agile, and even as we clash, he studies the way I move.
We hit the ground a dozen times, trading control before one of us breaks free and the fight returns to our feet.
My fatigue eventually wins out. By the time I tap and give him the victory, both of us are drenched in sweat and breathing hard.
Ronan rolls off me and thuds onto the dirt at my side. “Good fight,” he wheezes.
“Back at you,” I manage between puffs of breath.
“You can’t tell me that’s all from childhood training.”
“Ah, not all of it,” I agree with a breathy laugh. “I read a lot, and I’ve studied every martial arts book I could get my hands on.”
Ronan scoffs and rolls his head to look at me. “You fight like that from reading?”
I grin up at the sky. “I’ve always been good at visualizing what I read. Full disclosure, though—I also used to brawl with the guards at Ljómur for practice.”
“Smart.”
“Yes, but the motivation wasn’t always pure.” I glance over at him and find him cocking a brow. “It was boring as hell on that base.” We both laugh and push to our feet, dusting ourselves off and pulling our shirts back on before heading toward the main ring.
Cameron leans against the railing, chugging a glass of water. Ronan immediately wanders over and wraps his arms around his waist. “I did not mean to upset you, mo’sziv,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to the top of Cameron’s head.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Cameron drawls, gripping Ronan’s arms where they circle him. “You just worry, big guy.”
“I do,” Ronan admits into his hair.
A quiet longing pulls at my chest, and I look away before the memories can drag me under.
Elas is in the ring, but I’m surprised to see Cato circling him, practice sword in hand.
Cato is large for a human—not as tall as Ronan, though I’d dare to say he’s heavier.
Strong arms hold the sword ready, his stance wide and thighs taut, prepared to move at the first sign of trouble.
Elas circles for a few more seconds, studying how Cato moves and searching for weaknesses. He finally lunges, faster than his size should allow, but Cato dodges easily. Cato’s sword swings as he spins, dragging the flat of the blade along Elas’s upper arm and pulling a bellow out of the Nu’vak.
Cato flashes a toothy grin and takes several long strides backward.
I can tell he’s egging Elas on. It makes me wonder how much of his life he’s spent deliberately getting under people’s skin just to make them snap.
He feints forward a few times, but Elas doesn’t fall for it.
The next time Cato swings, Elas catches the blade with his own and counters, flinging the weapon right out of Cato’s grip.
Cato only grins wider, though I catch the frustration behind the taunting.
He pretends to lunge for the dropped sword, and Elas buys it this time and swings to stop him.
Cato’s foot snaps out to catch Elas in the wrist, the sword clatters to the ground, and before Elas can recover, Cato snatches it up and lands a hard swipe across his torso.
Elas roars loud enough to send birds scattering.
It triggers every instinct in me to run, but Cato doesn’t flinch.
He pushes in again, aiming a stab at the chest. Elas barely dodges, then scrambles for the second sword.
Once he grabs it, he unleashes a series of whistling swings that make Cato’s eyes flare.
He retreats, but Elas’s longer legs close the distance.
Cato grunts when the flat of the blade slams into his stomach, then doubles over, breath knocked out of him.
Elas slides behind to press the sword to his throat.
“Gotcha,” Elas growls, though the sound comes out more winded than any of us expect. He drops the blade and offers Cato a hand, eyeing the redhead with a mix of astonishment and respect. “That was a damn good fight.”
“It was,” Cato agrees as he accepts the handshake. “Next one will be even better.”
Elas chuffs a deep laugh and claps him on the shoulder. “I don’t doubt it, human.”
Cato’s eyes meet mine as he saunters closer.
My spine straightens, shoulders rolling back as I watch sweat trickle down the side of his neck.
He only lifts a brow and turns toward the pitcher of water by the ring.
Heat crawls up my cheeks—half embarrassment at my posturing, half irritation that he still looks at me like I’m nothing more than mud under his boots.
“Anyone else want to go?” Elas calls, flexing his arms so the muscles bulge beneath his skin. “Or are you all afraid of getting your ass kicked?”
My gaze drifts back to where Cato smirks at me. Another rush of adrenaline hits my veins as I track the way his body moves when he pushes off the tree. More sweat slides down his cheek, catching on the pitted scars before disappearing into his copper beard.
“It wouldn’t hurt me to train,” I call out, not breaking eye contact as Cato’s head tilts. “Weapons aren’t my strongest area, and I need to make sure my endurance is in top shape.”
“I have plenty of endurance,” Cato snaps.
My smile falters for a beat as my gaze drops to his heaving chest. “Of course you do. I’m sure you could keep going for hours.”
He holds my eyes once they return to his face, then lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Never heard any complaints.”
“Do you hear much of anything past your own commentary?”
His smirk deepens, amusement flashing across his face like the argument fuels him. “Just the moan of my name in my ear. You should try it sometime. Comes highly recommended.”
I turn quickly and grab the practice sword leaning against the fence, doing my best to sound casual. “Damn shame we have to save the worlds. Rain check, then?”
His laugh follows me across the ring, the weight of his gaze heavy on my back. “Yeah, darlin’. Rain check.”