Chapter 7
Nyx
“Are you ready to come out yet?” my new partner calls, an edge of impatience sharpening his voice.
No. Absolutely not.
I stare wide eyed at my reflection in the polished shield hanging on the wall.
It’s no grand mirror like the one back home, and the curved metal distorts my shape, but I can still make out enough to know this is all terribly wrong.
My dark hair, usually loose around my shoulders, has been braided up around the crown of my head.
My legs, which have never been exposed to the world in anything but flowing skirts, are encased in fitted leather the same dark shade as the jacket my new partner had been wearing when he arrived at my chambers this morning.
He’d appeared far too early, pounding on my door and ordering me to get ready so we could begin training.
The moment I emerged in one of my usual dresses, he’d taken one look at me, muttered, “That’s what I thought,” and marched me halfway across the city to this abandoned building he’d called the weapons room.
Apparently, it belongs to a friend of his. Apparently, I’m meant to spend the morning learning to wield weapons I’m still not entirely certain I can bring myself to use.
And apparently, I’m expected to do it dressed like this.
I turn side to side, squinting at the warped reflection. The leather skirt layered over the trousers is laughably short, barely reaching my thighs. Rather than hiding anything, it seems to draw attention to exactly what lies beneath.
The entire outfit clings in ways that make heat creep up my neck. I’m used to the weight and structure of gowns, to layers of fabric dictating every movement. This feels alarmingly different. Too light. Too freeing.
When I slide my hands down the front of my thighs, I expect heavy fabric to brush my fingers. Instead, there’s only smooth leather hugging close to my skin, and the unfamiliar freedom of movement sends a fresh rush of warmth to my cheeks.
“It has a skirt,” the man says from the other side of the door, his dry tone doing little to soothe my embarrassment. “That’s rather ladylike compared to what most fighters wear.”
“The skirt is far too short.”
“Trust me, it’ll make it easier to run, to fight, to move.”
He’s probably right. And yet, the words still leave my mouth, “I’m not sure I can wear pants.”
His sigh is immediate and long-suffering. “Nyx, just come out and let me see how bad it is. A friend of mine made that for you, and she’ll be deeply offended if you hate it.”
I freeze.
“She?”
“Yes,” he says, impatience bleeding into the word. “She’s a leather worker. She was delighted to have another woman to fit for, so if you’re about to insult her craftsmanship, I’d advise choosing your words carefully. I’d really hate for her to be–”
The knowledge that this outfit was made by a woman makes the shame melt away, and when I again consult my reflection in the shield, I imagine her hands carefully working the leather, crafting the skirt, and feel a surge of pride, independence, and boldness.
So I step out from behind the changing screen, my chin tipped up high as my mother would expect.
“Upset…” He trails off when his eyes fall upon me, his mouth closing, then opening, then closing once more. I ignore the weight and heat of his gaze, swallowing past the strange fluttering low in my stomach.
This was never a problem at home, with only Ivor, Hilda, and my sister for company. But now, with a man constantly near, I seem painfully aware of him. Of the way his presence shifts the air around me. Of the warmth that creeps through me whenever his attention lands too fully on my skin.
“Seems to fit you just fine,” he finally says, his voice rough, his brows pulled low, his dark brown eyes seeming almost black.
I shiver and clear my throat, wanting to change the topic away from my body and the material covering it, clinging to it. “I realized something strange… I never did ask your name.”
This seems to draw him out of his trance. “What?”
“Well,” I say, stepping around him and over to the wall of weapons, examining them as though I have any idea what they might do. “If we’re going to be on a team together, we should know each other’s names, shouldn’t we?”
When I turn back to him, his expression is unreadable. “I suppose,” he says. “So, yours is Lady Nyx…?”
“Lady Nyx Nocturne,” I say, bowing out of habit more than decorum. We are far past that, it seems.
“Thorian Valehart,” he says, pointedly not bowing to me. Instead, he sticks his hand out toward me expectantly. Slowly, I reach out and take it, trying hard not to react to the electric rush that shivers all the way down the length of my spine when our hands meet.
“Good to meet you,” I rush to say, pulling my hand away.
“And now comes the part where you teach me how to hold the dangerous end away from myself, I presume? Because if the plan is simply to point me toward danger and hope instinct takes over, I should warn you I possess remarkably poor instincts.”
“No,” he says, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth.
“Though avoiding self-inflicted injury is certainly high on my list of objectives. I told you last night, we’re training.
It won’t make up for your complete lack of experience, but it gives us better odds than simply throwing you into danger and hoping for the best.”
“Right,” I agree weakly as he leads me to the other side of the room, where a mat sits on the floor almost suggestively. It doesn’t seem to bother Thorian at all, who turns to me and clears his throat.
“All right,” he says, his eyes flicking down to my waist, and my body is flushed with so much heat it’s hard to think straight.
Then, I realize he’s looking at the dagger I have cinched there.
“Since that’s what you’ve come with, we might as well start training with the small weapon. Show me how you’d unsheathe it.”
I blink at him, then reach down and find the knife on my belt, hands fumbling with the strap as I try to remove it.
“A-ye.” When I look up at him, his hand is over his eyes, and he’s shaking his head.
“What?” I snap, face flushing. “I’m not like you, I haven’t grown up flashing a blade at anyone who talks against me.”
I expect him to be bothered by this, but when I glance at him next, having finally pulled the dagger from the sheath, his eyes are sparkling with amusement.
“What?”
“I wasn’t aware you were so familiar with my childhood.”
I’m not sure my face can hold any more scarlet, and I clear my throat, glancing at the knife in my hand, which feels too heavy and awkward in my grasp. Imagining the man before me as a child is difficult, and when I do, it only makes me wonder about the parents of such a brooding little boy.
Surely his mother and father aren’t thrilled about the prospect of him competing in the trials with me. In fact, if he has any family at all, maybe a wife, they must be prematurely weeping, grieving his loss.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Thorian says, reaching out and grabbing my wrist, which sends a jolt of energy through me, from both his touch and how the knife wobbles, nearly toppling from my hand.
When I meet his eyes, he lowers his voice and says seriously, “We’re a team now.
That means the only thing you can do is get better. And time is short.”
I suck in a deep breath, nod. Thorian releases my wrist.
“First, practice taking it from its sheath. The movement should be fluid, second nature.”
Feeling ridiculous, I do as he says, practicing the movements of slipping the knife from the sheath.
I fumble and jerk the thing, struggling with the little leather strap that holds it in.
The hilt feels slick in my palm, and each time I practice pulling it out, I’m terrified it will slide from my fingers.
Knowing my luck, I’ll end up impaling my own foot.
That would put a swift end to any hopes of entering the trials with this man.
Grunting his impatience, Thorian reaches over and demonstrates how I should flick my thumb to undo the leather strap. I’m entranced by how the sheath seems to defer to him, as though he only needs to think of the dagger for the hilt to nestle in his palm.
“Again,” he commands, and I feel ridiculous standing here in fighting leathers, only to practice pulling my weapon for nearly fifteen minutes.
But, finally, I can pull the knife from its hold without fumbling it.
“I’ll teach you a few simple moves,” Thorian says, moving me into the center of the room and turning, wrapping his large hand around mine in demonstration of how tightly I should hold the knife.
“The first and most important element of fighting is that your grip on that dagger needs to be ironclad. You don’t want your weapon to become your opponent’s weapon instead.
Especially considering your obvious lack of training.
The other entrants will want to get the blade away from you. Without it, you’re powerless.”
“Why, thank you,” I mutter, which makes him grin and drop my hand.
At least now the flush on my face can be attributed to the exertion of running through the exercises with him. He should have no reason to suspect it’s from anything else.
Not the warmth of his hand on mine, or the way his lingering gaze trails over me like a physical touch. And certainly not the rich, heady scent of him. Oakmoss and amber sap, layered with something older. Dusty parchment. Leather bindings left untouched for decades.
The smell pulls me back to my father's study. To trailing my fingers along rows of books, breathing in the scent of aging pages and leather covers, drunk on the endless possibilities hidden within them.
“Perhaps that’s not quite true,” Thorian jokes, drawing me out of my thoughts. “Even without the knife, you’ll still have me.”
I roll my eyes and let out a short laugh, my hand falling to my side.
In a flash, something approximating a fraction of a moment, Thorian has moved, faster than the morning light streaming in through the large windows.
At first, I'm too overwhelmed by the feeling of him so close, his chest against my back, his breath in my ear, to realize there is a blade at my throat.
He’s knocked the knife from my hand and brought his own up to the delicate pulse of my neck. Though he doesn’t bring the metal to my skin, the possibility of the sensation makes me shiver anyway.
“An important lesson,” he whispers, and I swear I can feel the brush of his lips. “Never let your guard down.”
Stupidly, all I want to do is to sink backwards into him. Let him hold me up. It’s like he said. I’ll have him during the trials. And there is undoubtedly a part of myself that wants him as much more than a fighting partner.
For what feels like an eternity, we stand together, our heat mingling, that sentence hanging in the air around us, lacing itself close with his scent.
It’s the aura of the man himself, untrusting, hesitant, but tempting none the less.
He’s a puzzle I’d like to pick apart, a maze which I’d try not to escape from, but to find its center.
I don’t know why I ask it, but I do, my voice nothing more than a course, weak whisper. “Even with you?”
He laughs, pulling back and severing the connection between us, as though my voice reminded him just how close we were. Tossing my blade to the other side of the mat, he turns, a flicker of emotion crossing his face as his dark eyes meet mine. “Especially with me.”