I bristled. “Why are you here? To shame me?”
“No,” he said, stepping forward slowly toward me. He held something out for me to take. I hesitated, peering out to see what it was. A dagger. Its polished bone hilt, intricately carved, was aimed directly at me. “To teach you,” he said softly, his eyes gazing at mine, waiting for my reaction.
I stared at the dagger. “I’m not helpless.”
He nodded once. “Then learn.”
He led me away from the others, down a narrow deer path that curled toward the edge of camp. The trees grew denser here, their branches weaving the sunlight into thin ribbons of gold.
We had been walking in silence for a couple of minutes when I spun around expecting an empty space, but instead I nearly collided with Erindor. There he stood. Far closer than I expected, silent as a shadow, and somehow more solid than anything else in the world.
I fumbled a step back, my heart jumping. “You move like a ghost,” I muttered.
He didn’t respond. Just tilted his head slightly, eyes unreadable.
I turned away again, trying to focus. My fingers fumbled with the dagger, already painfully aware of how awkward I must look. My palms were sweaty. My skirts kept catching on the underbrush.
I briefly looked over my shoulder. Erindor continued to stand behind me like a statue. Unbothered. Unmovable.
Then suddenly, in an instant, he filled the world, every detail of him pressing into my senses. The low, vibrating rumble of his voice, a faint, intriguing scar etching his wrist,the subtle prickle of stubble along his jawline. The primal scent of iron, pine, and woodsmoke enveloped me.
His closeness stole the air from my lungs, as my heart hammered against my ribs, a desperate drumbeat against the overwhelming intimacy of his presence. I could barely contain the tension and unsettling steadiness that had come over me. He was close, closer than anyone had been before. The men at court always seemed untrustworthy to me—all smiles and empty flattery, perfumed and polished but hollow. Erindor was the opposite—all rough edges, calloused hands, and a silence that said more than most men’s oaths.
He tapped my wrist. “Too tight.”
“I don’t want to drop it.”
“You’ll drop it faster if your hand goes numb.”
Obeying, I loosened my grip.
He stepped closer behind me, close enough that I could feel his warmth at my back. One of his hands hovered just over my shoulder, the other adjusting my grip.
“Here,” he said quietly. “The dagger isn’t about force. It’s about precision. Keep your wrist loose but not flimsy. Like this.”
He guided my arm forward in a short arc, the blade slicing through the air.
“Don’t swing wide. Short. Fast. You’re not trying to impress anyone. You’re trying to stop them from killing you.”
I swallowed hard. “Comforting.”
“Truth isn’t meant to comfort. It’s meant to keep you alive.”
I nodded, fighting to concentrate, my pulse skipping like a stone on water beneath the weight of his presence at my back.
“Now try it again,” he said, stepping back. “Yourself this time.”
I exhaled, reset my grip, and swung. Too stiff and too slow. The blade wobbled at the end of the motion like it wasn’t sure where to land.
Erindor’s expression didn’t change.
“No,” he said simply.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “I’m trying.”
“I know,” he said, and gestured for me to do it again.
He nudged my shin with his boot. “Feet apart.”
