Chapter 12 #6
Two weeks ago, Thane finally decided I was skilled enough to start training with the other instructors and warriors.
Since then, I’ve rotated through different sparring partners, learning their styles, their strengths, their tells.
Even Lyra and I have faced off a few times, though those matches usually resulted in more laughter than bruises.
Obviously, I still train with Thane daily. Because while I might be good enough to spar with the others, apparently I’m still a special project he can’t quite trust to anyone else.
Jarek stands in the center of the ring, shifting his weight from foot to foot—a fighter always in motion. His usual smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are sharp, assessing. He’s testing me before the fight even begins.
I tighten my grip on the blunted training knife, adjusting the angle in my palm.
He lifts one hand, wiggling his fingers, murmuring the protective enchantments under his breath. A faint shimmer flickers over his skin, the only magics allowed in this room—just enough to keep our blows from cutting too deep, but not enough to dull the force behind them.
The training hall hums with quiet focus. Warriors watch from the benches—some sharpening blades, others just observing.
Jarek blows out a breath. Then he lunges.
I sidestep cleanly, my training and instincts taking over. His blade swipes past my ribs, just missing. He follows up immediately. A second strike, angled toward my shoulder. I catch it with my forearm, deflecting him wide. My muscles absorb the impact, a dull ache buzzing up my arm.
Jarek presses forward. His blade comes fast—low, then high, feinting left before slashing right. I block the first two, but the third—I see it too late. The tip of his knife taps against my ribs.
A kill shot.
I swallow the frustration and step back, resetting my stance.
He expects me to hesitate. I don’t.
I step in, cutting off his momentum. Jab. Feint. Slash. I strike toward his side, not to win, but to force him back. And it works.
Jarek shifts, adjusting his stance. It’s barely a step, but it’s more than I could force from him two weeks ago. He tilts his head slightly, a flicker of approval in his expression. Then, he changes the rhythm. His next movements are smaller. Tighter. More efficient.
Before I can adjust, he sidesteps inside my reach, blocking my knife with his forearm. The next thing I know, my wrist is knocked wide, my balance is gone, and I hit the floor hard. My knife clatters across the stone.
Jarek stands over me, breathing evenly, his blade hovering just above my collarbone. The fight is over.
He grins, offering me his hand. “Better.”
Jarek pulls me up with an easy grip, his palm rough, his stance already resetting as if we hadn’t just gone through that brutal exchange. My muscles ache, sweat slicks my skin, but I keep my breathing steady as I prepare for another round.
But then movement catches my eye. Two mats over, Thane and Garrick are sparring.
Shirtless.
Thane moves like a predator—every motion is measured, efficient, devastatingly precise. His blade flickers in the dim light, his muscles shifting with each fluid strike, honed by years of training.
The sweat on his skin catches the glow of the overhead braziers, tracing over the ridges of his chest, the hard cut of his abdomen, the powerful curve of his shoulders. He’s all coiled strength. A living weapon. Every line of him built for war, for dominance.
And I cannot look away.
Garrick drives forward, forcing Thane to parry. Their blades clash, muscles flexing, the force behind their sparring nothing like the training I’ve just had with Jarek. They’re not practicing. They’re testing each other.
They don’t speak. Their blades do that for them—the way only years of fighting side by side could allow.
Thane’s forearms flex as he absorbs the impact, veins subtly rising beneath his skin. His torso twists, shifting the hard planes of his body as he evades Garrick’s next strike, the movement so smooth, so effortlessly controlled, it makes something tighten low in my stomach.
Garrick isn’t any less impressive—broad, sculpted. His chest is a solid expanse of muscle, his arms flexing with power as he fights to match Thane’s speed. All strength and confidence, a completely different kind of dangerous.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone. The thought creeps in unbidden, startling me for a moment.
Not since the village when life was simpler—before my world became something else entirely.
A memory stirs—warm hands, rough with field work but gentle against my skin, a whispered laugh in the dark, the press of a body over mine in the cool grass outside the village, hidden away from prying eyes.
A bed, strewn blankets, grabbing clothes and jumping out of my window—a flash of auburn hair as his head disappears.
Ronan.
We cared for one another, but he wasn’t the one I would marry. I knew this even then.
We spent many months together; stole moments we could—tangled under the stars, flushed and breathless in the golden light of early mornings. He made me laugh. Made me feel wanted. And for a while, that had been enough.
But that was over a year ago now. Feels like a lifetime. It didn’t end with a fight or some grand unraveling. Just . . . faded, the way some things quietly do. I hope he is alive and well, rebuilding, after the attack at the village.
I’d had a couple of lovers before Ronan—my first at seventeen. Those were more about curiosity and learning. Ronan, a couple of years older than me, was the one who taught me what pleasure could be.
Now, standing here, watching Thane’s body shift and flex with lethal precision, the sharp edges of him stark in the firelight, my blood hums with something long-buried. And that . . . is dangerous.
Thane is beautiful. Half naked, his sweat-slicked skin glowing, the deep lines of him moving with such lethal grace.
Gods! I should not be watching him like this.
Thane’s body shifts and flexes with lethal precision, the sharp edges of him stark in the beams of sunlight streaming through the windows, my blood hums with something long-buried, something I haven’t thought about in far too long.
And I realize, it’s not just today.
I have been noticing him more than I want to admit.
At first, it was small things.
The way he never underestimates me, never treats me as anything less than capable.
He is relentless in training, his expectations high—but not impossible.
He pushes me to be stronger, faster, sharper.
And when I falter, he doesn’t scold, doesn’t belittle, he encourages.
He waits. Watches. Then tells me to try again.
More recently, there are moments between training when I’ve caught him watching me. And my friends keep pointing it out when they catch him looking. When his guard lowers just enough for me to see something beneath all that control, a flicker of something restrained.
I’ve caught myself looking for him more often than I should. When I walk through the outpost with my friends, my eyes skim over the warriors, searching for those familiar broad shoulders, the sharp cut of his jaw, the steady, unshakable presence that has become a constant.
And at meals, I don’t even realize I do it, not until I’m already glancing toward the doors, checking if he’s there.
If he’s missing, I wonder where he is. If he’s there, I’m too aware of him, the way his hands curl around a mug, the way his fingers tap idly against the table, the way his eyes sharpen when someone speaks.
He doesn’t fill space the way some warriors do, loud, boastful, commanding attention. But he owns every room he steps into. And people feel it.
I feel it.
Some nights, after training, I replay our sparring sessions in my head. At first, it was a way to improve—analyzing my mistakes, figuring out how to be faster, sharper.
But now?
I remember the way his hands linger when he corrects my stance. The press of his palm on my hip, adjusting my balance. The heat of his body so close to mine, the steadiness of his grip, how completely unfazed he is by the contact.
And how completely not unfazed I am.
I don’t know when it started.
Just one moment, one look, one day at a time—until I was in too deep.
Because watching him now—raw power, lethal grace, that controlled fury in every movement—I know one thing: I’m far too aware of him.
And worse . . . I think he knows.
Garrick drives forward, forcing Thane to parry. Their blades clash, muscles flexing, the force behind their sparring nothing like the training I’ve just had with Jarek.
A figure steps up beside me. Lyra’s voice purrs in my ear. “So . . . which one are we drooling at?”
I nearly choke. “I’m not—”
Lyra snorts, arms crossed, eyes locked onto the exact same scene I had just been ogling.
“Oh, please. I saw the way you were staring.” She jerks her chin toward Thane, then lets out a low appreciative whistle.
“Though honestly, take your pick. Garrick’s built like he was sculpted by the gods.
Seriously, what is it with the men here?
And the women! Every time one of them takes off a shirt, I start questioning my priorities. ”
Three more join us, drawn in by the spectacle.
Taila steps up beside me, sweat gleaming on her brown skin. “By the gods. Thane and Garrick put every statue in the capital to shame.”
Nessa joins us, tall and imposing, fair skin glowing in the sunlight, striking blue eyes glinting with amusement. Her bunk is a few rows over from ours in the barracks. She crosses her arms, lips curving.
“Who needs art when this exists?” she says, pushing a few strands of blonde hair off her forehead.
Darius lets out a slow, appreciative sigh, arms crossed as he watches them spar. “Steel, sweat, and not a shirt in sight,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “Truly, we are witnessing a masterpiece.” He glances around. “And Fenric’s missing it. Tragic.”
Lyra let out a short laugh, nudging me. “You see? It’s not just us.”
Heat flares up my neck, burning all the way to my ears. I shrug my shoulders, feigning indifference. “I was just—observing technique.”
Darius and Nessa laugh; Lyra gives me a look that could strip paint.
“Mm-hmm. Observing technique. That’s why you were practically eye-fondling his abs. Look, I get it,” she interrupts, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Big. Broody. Built like a war god.”
I stop resisting because she’s so right. I don’t look away from the fight. “Both. We’re drooling at both.”
Lyra hums in agreement, crossing her arms. “Fair.” She tilts her head, considering. “Thane’s got that whole will-definitely-break-you-in-half-if-you-ask-nicely thing going on.”
I huff out a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”
Taila sighs wistfully. “No, she’s very, very right.”
Darius only hums in agreement, unable to tear his eyes away from the Warlord and his second sparring.
Nessa smirks. “Garrick’s got that ‘I can and will throw you over my shoulder’ energy, though.”
I bite my lip, watching the way Garrick’s back muscles flex as he adjusts his stance, the sheer power behind each strike effortless, commanding. “Again, you’re not wrong.”
But it’s Thane who makes my pulse stutter, my breath comes just a little too shallow when he stands close to me—when I feel the heat of him, the weight of his presence, like gravity pulling me in.
The way he moves—fluid, controlled, every motion sharpened by discipline and danger—it’s mesmerizing.
And gods, the ripple of muscle with every strike, the sheen of sweat gliding over the sculpted lines of his torso, the raw strength coiled beneath his skin—it’s doing things to me I have no business feeling.
He’s the Warlord of the Fire Clan—a man who probably has women lined up at the capital, waiting for just one look from him.
And me?
I’m from a village no one remembers, training for a destiny I barely understand.
Anyway, I have bigger things to focus on—training, magics, trying to become the damn Spiritborn. Not standing here, gawking at a man who is the very definition of untouchable.
And yet . . .
Lyra and I watch in mutual appreciation as they move—bodies shifting, sweat glistening.
The rhythmic clash of blades fills the room, punctuated by gritted breaths and sharp, focused exhales.
Every now and then, a smirk flickers between them, a silent challenge exchanged as they push each other harder, faster.
Lyra exhales dramatically. “Why do they all look like that? Is it a requirement to be an elite warrior? Because I swear, every time one of them takes off a shirt, my brain just—” She makes a vague, explosive gesture near her temples. “Gone.”
I nod slowly. “Yep. Same.”
“Alright, enough ogling,” Jarek says dryly, cutting through the moment. “If you all are done admiring my brothers, maybe get back to training?”
Darius sighs, shaking his head dramatically. “Just when I was really appreciating the arts.”
Taila grins. “A tragedy, truly.”
Nessa smirks but steps away, stretching her arms. “Back to work, then.”
Lyra and I stand there a moment longer, appreciating the view, before she bumps her shoulder against mine. “Alright, my friend, your turn’s up. I’m sparring with Jarek now, and you’re on strength training.”
I blink, my brain still slightly scrambled from Thane-induced thirst. “What?”
Lyra grins. “You know, lifting heavy things, making sure your arms don’t give out mid-swing, generally not embarrassing yourself in a fight?”
She gestures to the weights across the room. Lyra calls after me as I turn my head toward the weights, voice dripping with amusement.
“Focus! Those biceps aren’t going to sculpt themselves.”
Jarek, still standing beside me, fully entertained by the entire exchange, just smirks. “Try not to get too distracted while you’re lifting. You might hurt yourself.”
I elbow him—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make my point. He only laughs harder, his hazel eyes sparkling, knowing all too well where my mind is.
But as I walk toward the strength training area, I don’t let myself look back. Because if I do, I know I’ll get caught up staring at Thane again.