Chapter 9 The Spark
Chapter nine
The Spark
-Maris-
The courtyard was silent when she arrived.
No clashing steel, no barked commands. Just the hum of morning fog curling around obsidian spires, the scent of ash and frost clinging to the air.
She blinked against the pale light.
Where were Valea and the others?
Her boots scuffed against the stone floor as she stepped forward, expecting to be told she’d come too early or had missed a summons.
Instead she saw him — Kael.
Standing alone in the center of the sparring ring.
Cloak tossed aside, shirt unlaced at the throat, pale skin slick with the sheen of exertion and anticipation.
A sword rested casually in his grip, angled toward the ground.
His dark hair was unbound and wild, dark tendrils grazing his shoulders and his expression — Sinister. Cocky.
Maris’s breath caught.
“You’re late,” Kael said, voice smooth as velvet dragged across a blade.
“I wasn’t told I should arrive at drills prior to sunrise.” A flush crept up her neck as she murmured the reply.
“I sent the summons myself.” His voice held its usual swagger, though a flicker of uncertainty threaded through.
He took a step closer. The ring’s silver boundary lines shimmered faintly beneath their boots, wards humming with ancient magic to contain accidents… or power.
“You've had the luxury of sparring with generous opponents,” he said, circling her now like a wolf might a too-bold doe. “Today, I don't plan to extend the same courtesy.”
“You call them generous — does that make you my punishment?” she asked, lifting her chin with a teasing smile. “Or are you just here to satisfy your curiosity?”
His smile widened. “Does it matter?”
He removed his shirt and tossed her a gleaming blade — sleek, balanced, and cool to the touch. It settled in her palm like it belonged there, as if forged with her grip in mind. Nothing like the dulled, clunky practice swords she'd grown accustomed to wielding in drills.
His first strike came without warning.
Kael moved like liquid shadow, his blade sweeping low, forcing her to duck, roll, strike back.
She hit air.
He was gone before her blade even whistled past. Her breath came faster.
They danced this way for what felt like ages. She lunged, he twisted. She kicked, he caught her ankle midair and spun her off balance.
“You’re distracted,” he murmured, catching her from behind, his breath hot against her temple.
“Maybe I just like watching you before I strike,” she snapped, elbowing him hard in the ribs.
He grunted, stepping back. “Better.”
Their blades met again.
Metal rang, magic sparked between them like kindling desperate for flame.
She was sweating now, hair clinging to her jaw. When she wiped at her mouth, she tasted something sharp on her lip — salt and heat and something unmistakably him.
His sweat, she realized, heart stuttering.
Kael struck again.
And this time, he didn’t hold back.
He knocked her to the floor with a sweep of his leg, and she hit the mats with a gasp, the wind knocked from her lungs.
Before she could move, he was over her.
Knees pinning her hips, hands planted on either side of her head, face only inches from hers.
Maris froze.
His scent engulfed her, smoke and pine and crushed roses. The weight of him above her, the tension in his arms, the way his hair curtained their faces from the watching world,
It was maddening.
If he leaned down, just slightly . . .
No.
Her throat bobbed, breath hitching.
“You’re… crushing me.”
He didn't budge, his eyes flicked to her lips. A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth, all charm and trouble revealing his too sharp canine.
“You're not exactly fighting me off, love. Maybe you should stop looking so damn comfortable beneath me.”
Her pulse fluttered like a trapped thing. She wanted to scream, hit him, or pull him closer and see how far this dance of knives and need could really go.
And something inside her — snapped.
A rush of heat bloomed beneath her skin.
The ring of silver around the sparring floor glowed, flaring like white fire.
Kael froze.
Their bodies still pressed together, he stilled completely. Not even breathing.
He looked down at her.
And for the first time, hesitated.
Then.. darkness surged from his palm and she gasped.
Everything went black.
-Kael-
He tried not to think as he climbed the stone steps toward the Seer’s chamber.
Didn’t speak when the iron doors opened with a groan. Didn’t speak when the blind girl on the dais turned her milky gaze toward him, her mouth stitched shut by magic older than kingdoms.
But the Seer didn’t need eyes to know who had come.
She reached for her bowl of bone-carved runes.
Dropped one. Let it clatter across the floor.
Kael crouched, retrieving it.
A symbol burned into the ivory, a serpent devouring a rose.
His mouth tightened.
The Seer tilted her head. And then, from her throat, not quite a voice but not quite a thought, echoed into the chamber:
“She is the storm born from the dreamer’s heart.”
Kael stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
Another rune clattered.
A feather. Broken.
“You cannot bind what is already chained to the sky.”
He stepped back, heart pounding.
The Seer smiled, soft, sorrowful, and terrifying all at once.
“Ask not what she is.”
“Ask what she is becoming.”