Chapter Forty - Two
Chapter
Forty-Two
GIDEON
Idon't knock.
The east wing guest room has been Sage's designated quarters since her arrival, and right now, she's precisely fifteen minutes late for her scheduled training.
I push the door open with more force than necessary, scanning the room quickly. The bed is unmade, curtains still drawn despite the late morning hour. A book lies open on the nightstand. No sign of her.
Then I hear water running in the adjoining bathroom.
"Sage," I call, keeping my voice even. "Your training session began fifteen minutes ago."
The water stops abruptly. After a moment, the bathroom door opens, and she appears, hair damp, dressed in the training clothes I had delivered to her room the previous evening—black leggings and a fitted gray t-shirt. Her face flushes with embarrassment.
"I'm sorry," she says, tugging self-consciously at the shirt that clings more than she's accustomed to. "I lost track of time."
"Physical discipline isn't optional," I tell her, unmoved by her apology. "Especially now."
She runs a hand through her damp hair, a flash of irritation crossing her features. "I understand that, but?—"
"But nothing," I cut her off. "The Magister's surveillance teams have doubled. The council is aware something significant has occurred. And you remain untrained in the most basic elements of self-defense."
She sighs, shoulders slumping slightly. "You're right. I'm sorry."
I turn toward the door. "The training room. Five minutes."
Without waiting for her response, I leave, moving through the corridors of the estate with brisk efficiency. The training room is my domain—a space Malachi had built to my specifications years ago, equipped with everything needed to maintain combat readiness.
When Sage arrives six minutes later (a marked improvement over fifteen, at least), I'm already setting up the mats in the center of the room.
She hovers near the doorway, taking in the space with obvious apprehension—the weapons rack along one wall, the training dummies, the various pieces of equipment whose purpose she likely can't identify.
"I should probably mention," she says hesitantly, "that I'm not exactly... athletic."
I look at her directly. "I know."
Her cheeks flush again. "I mean, at school I was always the last one picked for teams. I have terrible coordination, and the only running I do is when I'm late for work, which isn't often because I'm usually very punctual, except today, obviously?—"
"Sage," I interrupt her nervous rambling. "I'm not expecting you to be an expert. That's why this is called training."
She nods, still looking uncertain.
"Come here," I instruct, gesturing to the center of the mat.
She approaches cautiously, stopping a few feet away from me.
"Closer," I say, tone brooking no argument.
She steps forward until we're standing face to face, her head tilted back to meet my gaze. This close, I can see flecks of darker blue in her gray eyes.
"First lesson," I tell her. "Stance."
I move behind her, adjusting her posture with precise, impersonal touches—straightening her spine, repositioning her feet, adjusting the set of her shoulders.
"Your body is your first weapon," I explain, circling her slowly. "Before magic, before strategy, you must understand how to occupy space effectively."
She tries to follow my instructions, but I can see the discomfort in her expression, the unfamiliarity of these movements.
"Have you ever been in a fight?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "Not a physical one."
"Then today, you learn how it feels," I tell her. "To be struck. To strike back."
Her eyes widen. "You're going to hit me?"
"No," I correct her. "I'm going to teach you how to be hit. There's a difference."
For the next hour, I run her through basic defensive postures—how to block, how to roll with a strike to minimize impact, how to fall without injury. She's hesitant at first, flinching away from even the slowest, most telegraphed movements.
But she tries. I'll give her that.
By the end of the hour, sweat darkens her shirt, and her breathing comes in sharp bursts. But she hasn't complained once, hasn't asked for a break.
"Water," I say, tossing her a bottle from the small refrigerator in the corner.
She catches it—barely—and drinks gratefully.
"Not bad," I allow. "For a beginner."
She lowers the bottle, a hint of satisfaction in her expression. "Really?"
"You lack strength, speed, and coordination," I say bluntly. "But you're persistent. That counts for something."
Rather than being offended, she smiles slightly. "High praise, coming from you."
I arch an eyebrow. "How would you know?"
"Elias mentioned you don't give compliments easily," she admits.
"Five minute break," I say, turning away. "Then we begin magical defense."
She groans softly but doesn't argue.
During those five minutes, I observe her covertly, noting how she massages her shoulder, the careful way she stretches her back.
"Up," I instruct when the break ends. "Center of the mat."
She complies, moving with a little more confidence now.
"Magical defense is different from physical," I explain, circling her again. "It requires a different kind of awareness, a different kind of response."
"Elias has been teaching me to shield my signature," she offers.
"Shielding is passive," I reply. "I'm teaching you to defend actively."
Before she can respond, I release a small pulse of power—nothing that would harm her, just enough to create pressure against her skin. She flinches, unprepared.
"Again," I say. "This time, push back."
I send another pulse, slightly stronger. She braces herself but still doesn't counter it.
"You're just taking the hit," I observe. "Push back, Sage."
"I don't know how," she admits, frustration evident in her voice.
I step closer. "Yes, you do. You've done it before. With Malachi, in the ballroom. With the dining table. You pushed back then."
"That was different," she argues. "I wasn't trying to. It just... happened."
"Then make it happen again," I challenge. "Find that feeling. That moment when you stopped accepting and started resisting."
She closes her eyes, concentrating. I can see her magical signature shifting, the golden light beneath her skin pulsing as she tries to access the power she's only beginning to understand.
I send a third pulse, stronger still.
This time, something pushes back—tentative, unfocused, but definitely there. A ripple of golden energy that meets my own, dispersing the pressure.
"Better," I nod. "Again."
We continue for another hour, gradually increasing the intensity of the magical exchanges. She improves with each attempt, growing more confident in her responses, learning to direct her power rather than simply releasing it wildly.
By the end, she's sweating profusely, trembling with exertion, but there's a gleam of accomplishment in her eyes that wasn't there before.
"Enough for today," I say, stepping back. "You've made progress."
Sage hesitates, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright and searching. She steps closer, her movements cautious yet deliberate, bridging the gap I've carefully maintained throughout our training session.
I should step back, should create distance, but something in her expression anchors me in place. A vulnerability that I didn't expect—and worse, a vulnerability that resonates deeply within me.
"Gideon," she murmurs softly, lifting her gaze to meet mine directly. The quiet intensity in her voice makes my chest tighten. "Thank you. For today. For everything."
I don't respond immediately, acutely aware of the dwindling space between us. Her eyes flicker downward momentarily before returning to mine, uncertainty giving way to determination.
She takes another small step forward, close enough now that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Her gaze searches my face, seeking permission, understanding—something I'm not sure I'm capable of giving.
My heart pounds heavily, betraying emotions I've long buried. And then, almost without conscious thought, my hand lifts to gently cup her face, thumb brushing lightly against the soft curve of her cheek. Her breath catches sharply, her eyes widening slightly, but she doesn't pull away.
For a heartbeat, we stand suspended, poised at the edge of something irrevocable.
But reality crashes back into me with brutal clarity, and I step back abruptly, dropping my hand as though burned.
"No," I say firmly, my voice rougher than intended. "We can't do this. Malachi trusts me—I can't betray that trust."
A shadow crosses her expression, embarrassment mingling with genuine remorse. She nods quickly, stepping away, creating the space I lacked the strength to maintain earlier.
"You're right," she says softly, eyes downcast. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you in that position."
Without another word, she turns and leaves the training room swiftly, the door closing quietly behind her.
I exhale deeply, feeling a complicated mix of relief and regret.
This can't happen again. It won't.
But even as I reaffirm this decision, I can still feel the ghost of her warmth beneath my fingertips—a haunting reminder of a line I almost crossed.