His voice is tight and I wish his obvious tension didn’t worry me, but it does. He knows better than any of us what we’re about to face. If he says I should train, then maybe– in this situation only – I should believe him.
He hands me one of the swords and his fingers brush against my knuckles. It’s the most minuscule of touches, and yet it sends my heart racing.
‘Sort out your footing,’ he commands, only to simultaneously strike at me.
I’ve not even recovered from how much I miss the feel of his skin against mine, let alone had a chance to think about my feet, and yet his blade is heading straight for me.
Instinctively, my hands swing upwards as I move my sword to meet his. The first clatter catches me by surprise, but it also brings me into the present. Reminds me what I’m meant to be doing.
At certain points, it feels as though I’ve been transported back to the early days of the Retterheld, to when Kyor and I would spar as Zelle offered tips and tricks to improve my technique.
‘Feet wider,’ Kyor snaps in a way that is remarkably similar to his old tutor, and I can’t help but wonder if he knows it. ‘Move your shoulders back. When you fight them, you need to keep your distance.’
‘You mean the Issen?’ I reply.
‘You can’t let their weapons touch you,’ he says in a manner that feels like he’s evading my question.
‘Because we’re okay if other enemies’ weapons touch us?’ I sass back.
But he doesn’t smile. ‘They poison their blades,’ he warns. ‘One nick, and you’re dead. So we’re practising a new style of fighting.’
Fear that I somehow subdued rises to the forefront of my mind, more potent than ever.
‘How can you fight someone who can kill you with one nick of their blade?’ I question, trying to hide the nervousness burgeoning within me.
‘Carefully,’ he grunts. ‘You only go in for a killing blow when you’re sure, and you nevereverleave yourself open. You need to fight defensively until you’re ready to land that final strike. That’s what we’re going to focus on.’
We battle on as we did back in the training yard, and soon I’m entirely lost in the feel of the blade in my hands and the jar of blows reverberating up my arms.
I almost expect a sassy comment from Llinos. A less-than-subtle whisper about whatever is going on between him and me, but of course, it doesn’t come.
There is no pulling of punches with me. Kyor trains me like a warrior, just like he always has done. Like he knows, more than anyone else, what I’m capable of.
It’s one of the things I love so much about him, I think before remembering that’s a thought that needs to be spoken in the past tense now.
The cold of earlier is forgotten, and despite the freezing temperatures, sweat glides down his temples, beads on his forearms, and trickles along the thin line of hair that leads down from his belly button. I try to ignore it all.
Try not to think about other occasions when sweat slicked his body to shiny perfection. Try not to think where that line leads.
‘That’ll do,’ he says finally when I’m soaked to the bone. As I drop my sword and realise just how much my heart is pounding, Kyor turns to Ruben.
‘You. Come here,’ he barks.
Ruben’s jaw sets.
‘We can’t have weak links. Either you show me you can fight or …’
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
Ruben doesn’t need him to. He rises to his feet.
‘Have you ever fought before?’ Kyor asks as I hand Ruben my sword.
‘I lived in the slums.Of courseI’ve fought before.’
‘Killed?’ Kyor presses.
Ruben slides his eyes to me for a beat before nodding.
