She thought of the mercenaries hunting her, how at any moment, one or more could corner her, and her grip on the dagger firmed.
“Are you interested in weapons?” Alarik’s voice cut through her thoughts.
She glanced up sharply. He stood close beside her.
“I want to learn.” The words came without hesitation, more to herself than to him. “I should’ve learned long ago, but I brushed it off as unnecessary.”
He studied her. His silence wasn’t dismissive—it was thoughtful. He didn’t tell her she didn’t need to know or offer the same assurances her father and brothers might have, that she’d always be protected. That someone else—like her Alpha—would wield a blade in her stead.
Alarik looked at her andunderstood.
“It’s a good blade,” he said finally, nodding toward the one she held. “Balanced. The curve makes it excellent for close combat—quick, decisive cuts.”
She blinked, caught off guard by the quiet respect in his tone. “You think so?”
He nodded. “I have one just like it.”
Reiya’s fingers tightened around the dagger before reluctantly placing it back on the display.
“I have a dagger,” she said. “A ceremonial one my mother gave me, blessed at Luneth’s temple. It’s more decorative than practical, but . . .”
Alarik lifted a brow, though there was no mockery in his gaze. “A blade is a blade. Even a ceremonial dagger can cut if kept sharp.”
Her lips curved faintly. “It’s sharp, but maybe not sharp enough.”
“Then we’ll fix that.” His voice held quiet certainty. “If you’re committed to learn, we can start tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened. “You’ll teach me?”
He nodded, eyes steady. “It takes a lifetime to master a weapon, but we can start with the foundation. Enough to make sure you’re not thoroughly helpless.”
Something warm coiled in her chest—more profound than relief, or gratitude. He didn’t offer protection. He offered knowledge. He offeredchoice.
“Hand-to-hand too,” he added, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Not everything can be solved with a blade.” He paused before adding, “And my bow, if you’d like to try it.”
Her mouth fell open. “You’ll let me use your bow?”
“I trust it’ll survive a novice.” His voice was dry, but his expression held something lighter. “Just . . . don’t throw it when you get frustrated.”
She huffed. “When do we start?”
“Tomorrow. After your turn at the stall.” A pause. “Unless you’d rather wait.”
“No.” Her fingers curled at her sides, excitement buzzing through her veins. “Tomorrow is perfect.”
Alarik inclined his head, nodding toward the daggers. “When you’re ready, we’ll find one that’s truly yours.”
She traced a final touch over the crescent blade before stepping away.
For now, its weight would remain in her memory. A goal to reach for, not something to walk away from entirely.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ALARIK
The clearing outside the market stretched quiet and still, dry grass shifting in slow ripples beneath the whisper of wind. Alarik adjusted his grip on his bow, the weight familiar in his hand as he waited.
This spot, tucked beyond the bustle of the market, was meant for solitude. It was where he came when the caravanserai pressed too close, when his thoughts grew too heavy to carry among others.
