CHAPTER 18
Magick denied its truth will not fade—it will twist. What is repressed beneath the surface will always seek a way to rise.
—Theory of Elemental Magick, Vol. I
I’ve taken to sparring with Noa on Sundays in the Training Room. I never want to be caught off guard by Stella, or anyone else, for that matter, again.
What started as an offer has now become ritual. My water bottle goes on the same bench it always does. I retie my braid twice because I learned—early—that loose hair is just another handle for someone to take.
Noa is always there ahead of time. Sometimes he spars with Finn or Ryan before training me. This morning he’s alone in the gym, wrapping his knuckles with white tape, neat and methodical, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. When he looks up, his mouth quirks.
“You’re late,” he says.
I glance at the clock. “I’m three minutes early.”
He nods once, completely serious. “Then I’m late.”
I laugh, stepping onto the mat, bare feet finding the familiar grit of chalk and rubber. “So what’s the plan today? Humiliation before breakfast?”
“Merely correction,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
“Mm-hmm. Well, I’ve been told trauma builds character.”
His gaze flicks over my stance—my feet, my shoulders, my hands—and softens by a fraction. “Not today.”
That’s the thing about Noa: he’s patient. Thorough. Helpful without being overly critical.
At least with me.
He circles once, slow and controlled, eyes tracking every small tell. “Your weight’s too far back,” he says. “You’re bracing for impact.”
“Maybe I like bracing.”
“But that’s not what I asked you to do.”
I scowl, but shift my body. Knees loose. Center forward. Ready to move instead of endure.
We go through the warm-up circuit—punch combinations until my shoulders burn, kicks until my hips loosen and my thighs tremble, footwork drills that feel like choreography until Noa steps in and turns it into a lesson in survival. He taps my guard, corrects my angle, makes me repeat it until my body stops negotiating and starts obeying.
He doesn’t use his full speed—not unless I get sloppy. He lets me fail where it’s safe, and stops me where it isn’t. I’m just starting to find the rhythm: breathe, pivot, commit?—
He catches my wrist when I feint and twists—not painful, just controlled—and suddenly I’m on my back on the mat before my brain catches up.
The ceiling is glaringly white at this angle. His silhouette above me—calm, precise, infuriating. But I can feel the heat of him through my clothes.
I swallow and decide, as always, to make it worse.
“Well… now that we’re here…” I murmur seductively.
His eyes flick toward my mouth.
The gym doors bang open and sunlight slices across the mats.
Rozsen strolls in like she owns the place. She glances at the scene she just walked into before yelling, “Gods, get a room, you two.”
Finn walks in behind her, rubbing his shoulder, adding, “They’re in a room.”
“I’m just teasing. Noa here doesn’t even know what flirting is,” Rozsen says, eyeing the two of us before giving me a wink. “He’d likely file it under ‘unauthorized behavior.’”
