A feral grin broke across her face as she lifted her head, instantly reclaiming some of the inches between them.
“This is hardly conducive to conversation,” Cedric grunted.
“So says you,” she said sweetly, dancing back a step to bait him. “Come on, Sir Knight. Show me something worth talking about.”
He loosed a low growl that had warmth immediately sparking below Elyria’s navel, but there was no time for that. Not as their faux-blades clashed once more—strike, block, feint, shove. He truly wasn’t bad at all. She was, of course, much better, but she could see how the knight had earned his reputation. She laughed, wild and breathless, and Cedric’s own face lit up at the sound. The two of them grinned like fools as they danced through the empty room, until Cedric swung wide, just as Elyria feinted left, then dropped into a roll.
She sprang up behind him, sending them both tumbling when she slammed into his back. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs, Elyria landing on top, her legs falling to either side of him. She straddled him with one hand on his chest and her practice blade pressed mockingly to his throat.
“Do you yield?” she murmured, unable to contain her smirk.
“For you?” he said. “Always.”
There was so much earnestness in the words that Elyria could feel them pulse in her chest. Could feel the lid of that box behind her ribs slip, the emotions she’d been forcing it to contain ready to burst free in full force. She immediately dropped her sword, bolting upright.
“Elyria, wait. I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for.” She drew herself off him, extending an arm to help him up. “I never should have?—”
He took her hand, and the room exploded into light.
Elyria leapt back as white-gold flame erupted from Cedric, flaring down his other arm and onto the sword still clutched in his grasp. It lit up like a funeral pyre, a beacon of golden fire. Her shadows surged instinctually, swallowing the blaze before it could spread.
When they dissipated a few moments later, Cedric was simply staring at his hand, at the scorch mark blackening the floor.
“I—I didn’t mean to—” he gasped.
“It’s fine,” Elyria said quickly, rushing back to his side. “You’re fine. It’s over. Everything’s all right.”
He looked at her then, the panic reflected in his eyes making her heart constrict. “You’re all right?” he asked, like he hadn’t heard a word she said.
“I’m all right,” she repeated.
His gaze went back to the still-smoking wreckage of the sword, little more than the charred hilt remaining. He dropped it as though it were poison, and it splintered into several pieces when it hit the ground. “I could have hurt you.”
“You didn’t.”
“But I could have.”
She smiled at him, and she hoped it looked more reassuring than it felt. “That is why we practice, Cedric.”
She offered him her hand once more, and he eyed it warily, like it was the reason the entire room had very nearly burst into flame. Several heartbeats passed, but then he was placing his hand in hers, their fingers lacing together as she hauled him to his feet.
Questions burned in his golden-brown gaze when their eyes met. His skin was warm—pleasantly so; the way one might feel after spending time in the sun. Something settled in her chest, the lid of her box sliding open just the tiniest bit more.
Elyria cleared her throat before dropping his hand. “Who are you, Cedric Thorne?”
Something hardened behind his eyes. “I am no one.”
She scoffed, gesturing to the scorched stone floor. “This is hardly the time for modesty. I meant?—”
“I am who you know me to be. Cedric Thorne, knight of Kingshelm. Ward and vassal of the lord paramount, and the human victor of the Crucible, much to my chagrin.”
“Cedric, please. You are clearly more than just hu?—”
“Stop.”
The word felt like a hundred tiny pins jabbing around Elyria’s heart, there was so much held within. Irritation and dismissal and, above all, fear.
