Chapter Fourteen #3
When she moved, it was with a feint meant to draw him forward before a quick sidestep and pivot let her slip past his guard and tap his ribs with an open palm.
“One,” she echoed, unable to keep the satisfaction from her voice.
His eyes narrowed slightly, reassessing. She'd surprised him.
The next exchange was faster, more intense. Neither willing to give ground, both reading each other’s moves with uncanny accuracy. At one point, they ended up locked in a momentary stalemate, faces inches apart, breath mingling in the cool air.
“Not bad for someone who couldn’t breathe a week ago,” he murmured.
"Impressive, for someone stuck teaching first-years," she countered.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone before she could be sure she’d seen it.
He broke the lock with a swift movement, almost too fast to track. But Cassara was ready, turning with the momentum, using his own technique against him to slide inside his guard.
Her palm connected with his chest, directly over his heart.
“Two,” she said, voice steady despite her racing pulse.
She could feel his heartbeat beneath her hand, strong and surprisingly fast. Neither of them moved for a moment that stretched far longer than it should have.
Then Auren stepped back, his posture shifting with new found intensity and a focus that hadn’t been there before. When he moved again, it was with a fluidity that made their previous exchanges look like practice.
He caught her next strike effortlessly, redirected her second, and with a motion almost too swift to follow, swept her legs from under her.
Cassara landed on her back, the impact controlled enough not to hurt but decisive enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Before she could recover, Auren was above her, one hand braced beside her head, the other tapping her collarbone lightly.
“Two,” he said, voice low.
She stared up at him, suddenly aware of their position, his body poised above hers, his face close enough that she could see a faint scar above his left eyebrow she had never noticed before and found herself wondering how he had gotten it.
Neither moved.
Outside, the storm that had been threatening all morning finally let loose. Rain began to fall, fat drops striking the windows in a rhythm that matched her heartbeat.
Cassara should have pushed him away. Should have reset. Instead, she found herself studying the line of his jaw, the controlled intensity in his eyes, the slight parting of his lips as he drew breath.
“Last point,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
Auren’s gaze flickered to her mouth, just for a moment, before he pushed himself up and extended a hand to help her rise.
She took it, the contact sending another jolt through her system. His palm was warm, his grip firm as he pulled her to her feet, perhaps a bit closer than necessary before releasing her.
They reset one final time.
This time, their movements were almost choreographed, each anticipating the other’s strategy, each countering with increasing precision. It wasn’t combat anymore. It was conversation, challenge, an exchange where neither was willing to concede.
When the final point came, it was simultaneous.
His hand found the hollow of her throat at the exact moment hers pressed against his sternum. They froze, connected by two points of contact that seemed to burn through cloth to skin.
“Three,” they said in unison.
A draw.
They stayed like that for a heartbeat too long, neither willing to be the first to break contact. The storm outside intensified, rain lashing the windows, thunder rolling in the distance.
Finally, Auren stepped back, his hand falling away from her throat with what felt like reluctance.
“You’ve improved,” he said, voice rougher than usual.
“Good teacher,” she replied, surprising herself with the admission.
A moment of silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of rain and their gradually slowing breaths.
“Your ribs?” he asked.
“Fine.” And they were. Even the fall hadn’t triggered pain.
Something flickered in his expression, there and gone too quickly to interpret.
“Good,” he said. But there was a finality to the word that left a hollow feeling in her chest. “We’re finished.”
Cassara gathered her things slowly, neither of them acknowledging the draw or the promised question. Perhaps because a draw meant neither won, or because they both knew there were too many questions that needed answers.
At the door, she paused, hand on the frame. The impulse to look back, to speak, was nearly overwhelming.
“Auren,” she said, not turning.
“Cassara.”
Her name in his voice sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. It was the first time he’d used it, not “Allencourt,” not a clipped command. Her actual name.
“Same time tomorrow?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, vulnerable in its hope.
A pause, filled with the sound of rain.
“You’ll be cleared after today,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “You’ll rejoin your cohort.”
“Right. Of course,” she said, nodding once before she stepped through the doorway.
It wasn’t until she was halfway down the corridor that she realized she was still holding her breath, as if some part of her was still caught in that charged moment on the training mat, his hand at her throat, her palm against his heart.
She exhaled slowly, the emptiness beneath her ribs spreading wider with each step that took her away from the training room.
This was what she'd asked for. Group training. Distance. An end to his relentless observations and impossible standards.
So why did getting it feel wrong?