Chapter 3 Fault Lines #3
The first strike came fast enough to wipe the humor from his expression immediately.
The impact echoed sharply through the training yard as Riven barely caught the blow in time, his boots skidding half a step backward across the packed ground from the force behind it. Several wolves exchanged glances while Soren pressed forward again before the recoil had fully settled.
Second strike.
Third.
Too fast. Too heavy.
Riven blocked both, but surprise had already sharpened into concentration now, his footing adjusting rapidly as he gave ground beneath the pace Soren forced onto him.
This was no longer routine sparring.
Soren knew it. So did everyone watching.
Still, he didn’t stop.
The rhythm of the fight accelerated quickly, practice blades colliding hard enough that splinters occasionally broke loose into the snow around them.
Riven recovered well — better than most would have under the pressure — redirecting several strikes cleanly while searching for openings that vanished almost as soon as they appeared.
Soren gave him none.
The frustration beneath his skin had become movement now, cleaner and sharper than thought, yet no less dangerous for it.
Riven twisted sideways beneath another strike, breathing harder now. “You’re leaning too far into your left side today.”
Under different circumstances, the observation might even have earned approval.
Instead, Soren drove forward again with enough force to nearly knock the sword from Riven’s grip entirely.
The impact jarred visibly through Riven's shoulders.
Around the ring, the atmosphere had changed completely.
No one spoke anymore. They simply watched, not because the fight itself had become violent, but because something about Soren felt wrong inside it—too aggressive, too relentless, as though instinct had begun outrunning the control he normally carried with such certainty.
Riven felt it too.
Soren saw the exact moment confusion finally overtook concentration in his expression. It was neither fear nor anger, but something far more unsettling.
What the hell is happening?
The realization should have stopped him.
Instead, something darker tightened beneath his ribs as Riven stumbled back another step and barely managed to recover his footing. All Soren could suddenly see was Eira standing beside him in the stables, laughing softly while Riven leaned a little too close.
The memory struck hard enough to distort the next movement.
He attacked again, moving faster than he intended.
Riven barely managed to block before the force of the blow knocked him completely off balance. One knee slammed into the packed earth, and the training sword slipped in his grip.
Soren advanced anyway.
A murmur of surprise moved through the ring.
Kael immediately pushed away from the post.
"Soren."
The warning carried clearly across the yard, sharp enough to cut through the growing tension, but Soren barely heard it.
Riven looked up from the ground, breathing harder now, genuine disbelief replacing the humor he had carried into the sparring match.
"What the hell—"
The next strike stopped inches from impact.
Soren froze as the full weight of what had almost happened crashed into him.
For one terrible second, he understood with complete clarity that he had not intended to stop.
Silence settled across the training grounds, heavy and unnatural, carrying the unmistakable weight of something everyone present understood should never have happened.
Soren stepped back abruptly.
The sword felt wrong in his hand now, heavier than it should have been, as though it belonged to someone else.
Riven rose slowly, his gaze never leaving Soren's face. The confusion remained, but now it was joined by concern and something dangerously close to suspicion.
Around them, no one moved.
Even the wind crossing the yard seemed to have quieted.
A brief glance around the ring confirmed what Soren already knew. The same realization was written across every face.
Something is wrong with him. The thought landed coldly.
Without another word, he hurled the practice blade aside. It struck the ground near the weapon rack and splintered along one edge before coming to rest.
Then he turned and walked out of the training yard before anyone could stop him.
The cold struck him the moment he stepped into the open corridor beyond the walls, but it did nothing to ease the pressure still tightening beneath his ribs.
Behind him, conversation slowly returned in low, uncertain voices.
Ahead, somewhere deeper inside the fortress, the bond stirred faintly against his awareness.
He felt Eira even now. Distance, restraint, and every attempt to create space between them had changed nothing. If anything, the connection felt sharper than before, harder to ignore and increasingly unstable.
Soren slowed beneath the archway overlooking the lower courtyard, watching snow drift steadily across the pale afternoon beyond the fortress walls.
For weeks he had refused to examine a possibility that now stood plainly before him.
Perhaps distance was not containing the bond at all. Perhaps it was making it worse.