Chapter 27
Some holds are meant to subdue. Others are meant to test how long one chooses not to submit.
—Combat Theory I: Foundations of Defense
The Training Room falls silent as the Vikhrostrum delegates file in.
The rows of polished wooden bleachers have been pushed back, revealing an elevated platform with a thick tan sparring mat at its center.
Radiating out are the black rectangular training mats that have been moved into a pattern like spokes of a wheel.
Whittaker students press in around the perimeter—close, curious, and tense. The collective body heat and tang of iron from the stacked weights in the corner is a sharp contrast to the icy-cold wind tapping at the windows above.
At the front, Headmaster Thorne stands between two Vikhrostrum students: Gavrail and Tsvetan. I swallow, my eyes tracing the way light glances off the lines of his forearms. The silver in his eyes cuts brighter today as he scans the room—restless, searching. For something. Or maybe someone.
Thorne addresses the gathered crowd. “The Vikhrostrum delegates have agreed to a showcase of sorts, to share with us some of their combat training and tactics from their own school. We are honored with the chance to learn from and observe them in action.”
The two friends enter the ring and bow to each other.
Tsvetan’s stance is impossibly still, feet shoulder-width apart, relaxed, eyes hooded.
But Gavrail—he looks like he was born for this.
Shoulders coiled, ready. A weapon waiting to be drawn.
Controlled tension held beneath the sharp planes of muscle.
Like shadow folded into flesh. He cracks his neck with slow precision.
No magick, no elements. Just bone, muscle, and lethal intent.
A nod from the headmaster, and they begin.
Tsvetan flicks out the first strike—a lightning-fast jab aimed at Gavrail’s ribs. It connects with a hard thud, and Gavrail’s shoulders dip on the impact. He inhales sharply, eyes narrowing. But he doesn’t fall back.
He breathes in once—slowly.
Then retaliates.
He drops low, sweeping for Tsvetan’s feet. Tsvetan dodges, coiling away from the sweep, and a knee slams into Gavrail’s side as he rises. A lesser fighter would’ve stumbled.
But not Gavrail.
He shifts, pivots, and strikes.
The room seems to shrink around them, the scrape of bare feet on canvas loud in the silence, every impact echoing sharp against the walls. He moves so fast it’s like trying to capture lightning mid-strike—impossible to see where one move lands before another one begins.
Gavrail comes back with a feint—a straight punch that whistles toward Tsvetan’s guard.
Tsvetan bites, throwing up a block. Exactly what Gavrail wants.
Gavrail catches him by the forearm and yanks him in close, knee snapping up—too close for Tsvetan to slip—before a devastating hook buries itself in his ribs.
The air hisses from Tsvetan’s lungs, and his stance finally falters.
The crowd sees brilliance. I see calculation.
That faint tightening of his mouth, as if Tsvetan’s pain was inevitable.
As if Gavrail decided the ending long before it began.
If last week’s duel proved Tsvetan to be an expert at chess and manipulation, then Gavrail is a grandmaster—knowing precisely how to unmake someone, piece by piece.
Sensing the opening, Gavrail pivots on his lead foot and whips a knife-hand across the side of Tsvetan’s head—ear and jawline—so vicious, it sends a hush through the crowd as Tsvetan’s head snaps back.
His eyes glass over for a heartbeat, then sharpen as he jerks his head side to side, like he’s trying to force his vision to steady.
Gavrail steps in, pressing his advantage, strike after strike. Each move looks effortless. He’s not reacting—he’s directing. Controlling the pace. The space.
A jab to the shoulder. A cross to the chest. A brutal front kick to the gut that caves Tsvetan forward with a raw groan—
—and then Gavrail has him. Wrist trapped, balance stolen. One smooth turn and Tsvetan is airborne for a heartbeat before he slams onto the mat, the impact reverberating through the space. Gavrail follows him down, never letting go.
For a moment, Tsvetan just lies there, sucking air. Gavrail holds the lock until Tsvetan’s hand hovers, then taps twice in quick surrender.
Gavrail releases him instantly and rises, breathing evenly, every muscle coiled but relaxed. A body meant for fighting, and winning.
A hush falls, broken by Headmaster Thorne’s voice: “Gavrail wins. Well fought.”
Whittaker students erupt into cheers. Even the Vikhrostrum delegates allow themselves a quiet nod of respect. Gavrail offers his hand; Tsvetan takes it and pushes to his feet.
It’s clear the Vikhrostrum students hold the edge in pure physical combat—their movements executed with military precision, each strike as deadly as it is flawless, showcasing them as weapons honed to perfection.
Headmaster Thorne steps forward. “We will continue with the next challenger—except I have a surprise for my Whittaker students. I’ve arranged for each Vikhrostrum delegate to now select a Whittaker opponent of their own choosing.”
A ripple of nervous laughter and eager shouts runs through the crowd as some Whittaker students—pulsing with adrenaline—step up to the ring, offering themselves in challenge.
Thorne gestures. “Tsvetan—choose.”
Tsvetan’s dark eyes lock on Noa. He inclines his head once.
Noa steps forward, jaw set. The crowd parts for him, whispers trailing, but all I see is the controlled fury in his stride.
A charged silence. The look in Noa’s eye is beyond deadly.
Ready to pay back Tsvetan for what he did to Finn at the Mountain.
One by one, each delegate selects an opponent. Jazz grins and bounds off to a black mat, squaring up near the gym doors. The room is now divided up into little rings of combat.
Finally, Gavrail stands up next to Headmaster Thorne. Still. Focused. A blade in its sheath. He scans the crowd again.
Until his eyes lock on mine.
A slow, unmistakable smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. Confident. Inevitable. Like he knew exactly where I’d be standing. “Her,” he says, with a slight nod in my direction.
The word slams into me like a strike. My breath catches, a sharp, involuntary sound.
Rozsen’s hand finds my shoulder—steadying. “Breathe,” she murmurs, eyes flicking toward where Noa disappeared with Tsvetan, as if willing him to come back and put a stop to this.
Hushed whispers from the crowd surround me, some derisive, others hungry for spectacle. I catch Stella’s quiet sniggers and hushed insults through the chatter.
My heart hammers as I walk toward him.
Thorne raises his hand. “Celeste is a first-year, and while I’m sure she’s talented, her skills will not be up to task.”
“I choose her,” Gavrail says, sharp, clipped, with conviction.
Thorne’s gaze sharpens, flicking between us. He studies Gavrail—calculating—then me—curious. For a breathless moment, I think he’ll refuse. But then he steps back and nods. “You may accept or decline the challenge, Miss Farris. The decision is yours.”
I try to draw in a steadying breath as I stand next to the ring, looking up at Gavrail.
He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. But his eyes hold a challenge.
He’s daring me. Like when he dared me to jump off that waterfall when I was thirteen.
Or when we took a joy ride in his father’s treasured restored Volga on his sixteenth birthday.
My eyes narrow. “I accept.” It comes out more growl than speech.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Thorne smile, like he’s just been handed a gift, a spectacle that he’s been wanting to see.
Gavrail offers me a hand to pull me up and I take it.
His grip is warm, infallible, a tether I don’t dare trust. A spark runs from his palm into mine, quick and charged, as if the touch means more than it should.
I pull my hand away the instant my feet hit the platform, before the current can root itself deeper.
He waits for me to set my feet before extending a hand to me, two fingers curling toward himself to tell me to begin.
I stand on the mat, shoulders squaring with determination. And then I rush him—remembering Noa’s words:
“You’re small, Celeste. Use it to your advantage. Strike first and you can dictate the tempo. Your opponent will then be reacting to you, rather than you reacting to them. You want to get inside their reach to deny them the space they need to build force against you.”
My muscle memory from my Sunday drills with Noa takes over—jab, feint, low kick.
Gavrail shifts only a fraction, deflecting each blow on rigid forearms and solid shoulders. He never strikes. He simply remains immovable—precision in-fucking-carnate.
I pivot and press in again—two quick punches to his guard, a snap kick aimed at his ribs.
He absorbs them easily, his feet barely moving.
He seems to anticipate every strike, every step, as if he knows exactly what I’m about to do before I do it.
His eyes—cool and assessing—narrow a fraction, a small smile on his beautiful face.
Damn him. My breath quickens. I continue my barrage of punches and kicks against his wall of stone, tiring as I do so, slowly running out of breath.
He’s studying me. Letting me exhaust myself. Letting me try.
My knuckles sting, frustration burning hotter than exertion. Sweat trickles into my eyes, salt stinging as my chest heaves. And still his gaze tracks me, like a judge waiting for the guilty to confess.
I lunge one last time—a desperate overhand punch. Overextended and reckless.
That’s when he finally moves.
Gavrail’s hand closes on my wrist. His grip is iron, callouses scraping my skin as if he could brand me with touch alone.
In a single fluid motion, he twists, pulling me around until my back slams against his chest. The breath punches from my lungs and a startled sound escapes me—a low gasp, half snarl, half something else.
His arm is locked around my middle, my pulse thundering in my ears.
He has me. I can feel his breath, warm at my neck.
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the heat between us and the solid weight of him behind me. My body betrays me—fire flaring where fear should be. And he fucking knows it. Bastard.
“Glad to see you’re better at this than when we were children,” he says quietly into the shell of my ear, his voice dark velvet. “But you still leave your left side open.”
And I can feel him. All of him. The hard lines of his body against the soft curves of mine. Restraint so potent it crackles.
Anger and something more flares under my skin. I surge again, feinting to stamp his instep and disrupt his stance, driving my heel as hard as I can into the side of his knee. His weight jerks, leg buckling. His knee hits the mat, and for one second, he’s down. I twist—
His hand clamps around my waist. The world tilts. The floor rushes up, and he follows me down like a shadow—heavy, relentless—until his hips pin mine, owning my center of gravity, and I’m left staring up at him, breath gone.
He leans down, the corner of his mouth ghosting my ear. “If you wanted me on my knees, Celeste, you could have just asked. You and I both know I’m perfectly comfortable in that position when it comes to you.”
Oh my fucking gods. Did he seriously just—
I bridge hard, trying to throw him off, but his hold is unrelenting. “Glad to see you’re still just as cocky,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“Correct,” he says, that infuriating smirk back in place.
Time stretches—muscle memory and emotion colliding—until the clear, sharp sound of a throat clearing cuts through the air.
Noa.
I startle. He’s there at the edge of the platform, standing with a winded Tsvetan, who is sporting a blooming black eye and clutching his elbow. Match won, Noa’s arms are crossed, eyes dark with warning.
Gavrail releases me. He offers a hand to help me up, giving a slight bow of his head as he does so—mocking or respectful, I can’t tell.
I step off the platform and walk to Noa’s side. My heart races as adrenaline courses through me. Noa stands next to me but doesn’t touch me as he glares at Gavrail from across the ring.
Behind us, Headmaster Thorne raises his hand for silence, ready to call the next match.
I’m flushed in a way that makes my skin feel too tight, too sensitive.
I glance up at Noa. His jaw is clenched, posture forcibly relaxed even though the tension in his arms suggests otherwise.
I press my hand to his. He glances down—relief and something darker flickering across his face—then turns toward the next challenge.
My skin is still charged with the memory of Gavrail’s strength against me, Noa’s silent warning echoing in my head. I draw a steadying breath, as if trying to make my traitorous body forget what it’s feeling. The biological betrayals I refuse to acknowledge.
I hate that even now, I still seem to know the shape of him.