Chapter Thirteen
The training room was cold at six a.m.
Not frostbitten like the higher terraces, but sharp with still air and shadow. The enchantments that warmed the space during peak hours hadn't kicked in yet, and the only light came from a few slits of early dawn filtering through the high windows.
Auren was already there in the far ring, moving through a series of warm-up drills.
He pivoted low, swept high, his arms cutting through the air in controlled arcs that barely made a sound.
He was dressed in black sparring gear, and she couldn't help but notice how the fabric moved with him, tracing the lines of muscle across his shoulders as he shifted his weight.
She watched longer than she should have, captivated by the way he moved—certain, deliberate, like someone who'd spent years learning exactly what his body could do and never had to prove it.
Heat crept up the back of her neck and she forced her gaze away, focusing instead on the weighted rods and reinforced balance markers laid out near the edge of the ring.
"Planning to watch all day, or are you actually going to train?"
Of course he’d caught her staring. He hadn't even turned around. How did he always know? She stepped into the room and crossed to the mat, boots scuffing against the chalk-dusted edge. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"On time, even." He adjusted one of the weighted rods without looking up.
"Gee, try not to sound so pleased."
"I'm not."
She rolled her shoulders, testing the stretch across her ribs. Still sore, but better. "So what's the plan? Boredom by repetition? Or do we skip straight to condescension and balance drills?"
That earned his gaze.
He turned just enough to meet her eyes—steady, unreadable, like she'd walked into a blade he hadn't drawn yet. The intensity of his focus made her skin prickle with awareness.
"If you're done performing," he said, "we can start."
She shrugged. "Ready when you—"
Without warning, he tossed her a baton. It was weighted and heavier than she expected. She caught it one-handed, the impact jarring through her wrist, but she didn't flinch.
"Precision drills," he said. "Control over power. No flares. No bursts. No shortcuts."
"Because of my ribs," she muttered, adjusting her grip.
"Because you're sloppy when you're angry."
Cassara grit her teeth. "Maybe I perform better when I'm angry."
"No," he said, stepping into her space without hesitation. "You perform louder. There's a difference. Get in position."
Cassara took her stance, feet spaced apart, shoulders squared, the baton held level with the precise angle taught in standard combat training. Professional. Controlled. Exactly how she'd been drilled.
He moved behind her, and suddenly she was aware of every inch of space he occupied. The air felt warmer at her back.
His fingers brushed her elbow, adjusting the angle with brief, deliberate pressure. The touch was clinical, impersonal even, but her pulse kicked up anyway. She hated that her body reacted before her mind could stop it.
"Strike."
She struck.
"Slower."
Another strike.
"You're compensating."
"I'm injured," she bit out.
"Then stop pretending you aren't."
Heat flared in her chest. "You're enjoying this."
"I'm surviving it," he said.
Fine. If he thought she was favoring her ribs, she'd prove she wasn't.
She reset her stance and moved into the next sequence, deliberately distributing her weight evenly, forcing her injured side to bear the load it had been avoiding. The baton cut through the air—
The pivot came with full commitment, no compensation, exactly as it should be. But her ribs weren't ready for it. Pain lanced through her side, sharp enough to steal her breath. Her weight pitched forward and her vision blurred at the edges.
He caught her around the waist to stop her from falling, and she suddenly found herself pressed against his chest, fingers twisting without conscious thought into the fabric of his shirt. She could feel his heart beating against her palm, the rhythm faster than it had any right to be.
"Damn it." The word came out rough. "This was a mistake. You're too reckless. You're—"
"I'm fine." She wasn't fine. Her ribs were screaming and she was shaking and his hand was splayed across her lower back, fingers pressed firm enough that she could feel the heat of them through her training gear.
"You're not." She lifted her gaze to meet his eyes and noticed a flush had crept up his neck, faint but unmistakable against his skin. "That's enough for today."
"No." She forced herself to straighten, but his arm stayed locked around her waist. "I can keep going."
"I told you—"
"I said I'm fine." Her voice shook and she hated it. Hated that his hand was still on her, that she could feel every point of contact between. His eyes dropped to where her hand still gripped his shirt, then back to her face. She watched his throat work as he swallowed.
"Let go," he said quietly.
For a heartbeat she didn't know if he meant her hand or the argument.
Then his arm loosened at her waist and his hand slid from her back with deliberate slowness, fingertips dragging across fabric in a way that felt anything but professional.
She released his shirt and stepped back. The air between them felt colder without his body heat.
"Slower, then," he said, and his voice had gone carefully neutral again. Professional. Like the last thirty seconds hadn't happened. "And if you so much as wince like that again, we're done. Understand?"
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and reset her stance with movements that were deliberately controlled this time.
Auren circled slowly, his presence deliberate without ever becoming invasive. He didn't correct her again, not with touch, but she could feel his gaze mapping her movements, cataloging every shift of muscle and balance. He didn't look away, either.
They moved through the set twice more, the rhythm sharpening. The only sound between them was the muted thud of her boots against the training mat and the quiet drag of breath.
By the time he called it, her hands ached and her body trembled from the stillness, not exertion, but control.
Auren stepped back. "That's enough for today."
Without another word, he turned and began gathering the rods. She once again found herself watching the flex of his forearms, the controlled precision of his hands, and quickly turned away, heading towards the door.
She was nearly there when he spoke.
"Same time tomorrow."
It wasn’t a question.
Cassara paused, hand on the frame, but she didn’t look back.
"Yeah," she said. "I figured."
Then she stepped out into the hall, breath still tight in her chest and for the first time in days, not entirely from pain.
The dining hall buzzed with midday noise—cutlery clinking, steam rising off charmed dishes, and the low churn of mana from the overhead runes adjusting the light.
Cassara sat in their usual alcove near the east windows, half-listening as Liri interrogated her about training in between mouthfuls of food.
“Okay. So,” she said, leaning in, “you’re just casually training alone with Auren Veth now? Like, normal thing, no big deal?”
Cassara didn’t look up. “It’s not like that.”
"It's exactly like that," Liri hissed gleefully. "He's terrifying, but in a pretty way. I've never seen anyone dodge like that and still look like he was judging your life choices."
"He judges everyone's life choices," Cassara muttered. She stabbed a piece of potato on her plate with more force than necessary, trying to ignore the unbidden image of Auren's focused gaze that flashed through her mind. "It's not personal."
Liri beamed. "That's what draws the eye, isn't it? The danger beneath the control."
Cassara looked up, deadpan, hoping her face didn't betray the treacherous part of her that, for just a heartbeat, couldn't entirely disagree. "You need better taste."
Liri rested her chin on her fist. “Did he have to correct your stance? With his hands?"
Cassara made a face, her skin warming at the memory of his fingers against her elbow, brief but deliberate. "You’re depraved."
"Mmm. Maybe. Was it cold and emotionally confusing?"
Cassara gave her a long, hard look. "He's just a combat instructor."
"No. He's Auren Veth," Liri whispered dramatically. "I heard he graduated a year early and became a breach commander right after. Youngest in history."
Cassara rolled her eyes and stabbed at the last bite of roast on her plate. "Am I supposed to be impressed?"
Before either Liri could reply, Talia slid onto the bench beside her. She didn't make eye contact. Just set her food down, calm as ever, like sitting with them was as natural as breathing.
Cassara blinked. "You're sitting with us now?"
Talia shrugged once, her tone casual. "It was loud over there."
They waited for her to elaborate. She didn't. Of course she didn't.
Liri suddenly perked up. "Talia! You've heard things. About Auren. Haven't you? Wasn't he born in the Outer Isles?"
Cassara's shoulders stiffened. "Don't start—"
But Talia didn't look up from her food and Cassara hoped she would simply ignore the question. "Only things my cousins have said, nothing verified, it's all rumors."
So much for silence.
Liri straightened, visibly leaning in. "Go on."
"He used to lead advanced breach units. Off-record missions. Leviathan zones. Wilds reclamation." She paused. "Had a perfect record for over a year before it happened."
Cassara found herself listening even though she'd told herself she didn't care. When Talia didn't continue, she found herself growing impatient. "What happened?"
Talia glanced at her briefly before responding. "He lost a squad."
Cassara's breath caught, just for a second.
The buzz of the dining hall seemed to fade around them, the low voices and clinking dishes softening under the sudden quiet at their table.
Liri blinked. "What, like… they just went missing?"