LETH
First Leth imagines the training dummy is Anton. Next, he imagines Javius. Then his muscles and joints melt into the rhythm of his routine, and his mind sails away. He stops thinking and becomes simply a moving body. A flow of breath limned in magic.
A few Varan paladins were training when he arrived at the practice hall. Leth asked if they needed another sword to spar, and they agreed. They recognized him; Leth’s been staying in a guest room at the Bright Cathedral since the Unbinding.
He knocked one woman on her ass and sent a man sprawling next. Maybe the other paladins sensed the kind of mood he was in, because suddenly he had the practice room to himself. That’s fine. Training dummies last longer, and Leth needs to burn himself out right now. His lungs seize with exertion, and even his well-trained muscles scream with the constant movement. As his exhaustion builds, he can almost forget the stinging bruise around his right eye.
For a delirious moment, he imagines the training dummy has a gray shirt, a sword in its hand, and spell beads in its loose brown hair. Snarling, Leth drives his sword through the vision of himself.
Wood cracks like thunder. The battered dummy slumps on its stake, then falls to the ground. Straw and sackcloth slides from Leth’s sword in a puff of dust.
Leth lowers his trembling arm, all his strength suddenly spent. He doesn’t have enough spells prepared to drag himself through another routine. Breathing is harder now that he’s stopped moving. His shirt sticks to his heaving chest, and even his palms feel wet beneath his gloves. By the sun’s angle through the windows, he’s been here for hours.
Lightheaded, he sheathes his sword and turns around to find his coat. That’s when he realizes he isn’t alone. Surprise pierces his exhausted daze, then settles into annoyance.
Evain Marha lounges against a pillar, his dark gaze unwavering. He lacks the decency to look abashed at being caught watching.
Leth’s never seen that coat on Evain before. The dark red is eye-catching, which must be why Leth notices the way it outlines Evain’s broad shoulders and crossed arms. The way it skims past his hips. An accusation Leth can’t refute echoes in his head.
You reek of demon magic. It clings to you like a shroud.
Averting his gaze, Leth makes for his own discarded coat. Not ten paces from the demon-bound witch, but Leth is good at ignoring people.
When he crouches, the change in posture is dizzying. Black sweeps across his vision, and his fingers feel weak and foreign clenched in his coat. He remains crouching, head bowed, and tries to breathe. Clear his head. He refuses to faint in front of anyone, much less Evain.
Footsteps thud on the dusty floor, and Evain’s boots appear in front of him. Dark leather wraps around shapely calves, before the red hem curtains off the rest of Evain’s legs.
“Need some help?” Evain asks. If he’s mocking, it’s subtle.
With another deep breath, Leth rises to his feet, coat in hand. This close, it’s impossible to ignore Evain’s height. The man’s at least a foot taller than Leth. Instead of making eye contact, Leth addresses a point of empty air somewhere past Evain’s bicep. “What do you want?”
“That’s a dangerous question,” Evain purrs—the only word for the resonance in his voice. “I wanted to ask—no, before that, what’s the matter with you today?”
There’s no flirtation in his question, and the change of tone is so abrupt it leaves Leth reeling. When he glances up, Evain’s brow furrows in something like confusion or concern.
“Nothing’s the matter.” Leth ducks away from Evain’s piercing gaze. But before he can escape, Evain reaches out.
Leth moves on instinct. The next instant, Evain’s gloved fingertips hover an inch away from Leth’s chin, and Leth’s own hand locks around Evain’s wrist, preventing him from getting closer. Adrenaline spikes Leth’s pulse, and his mind races with a dozen ways to gain the advantage, using Evain’s greater size and mass against him.
But Evain doesn’t struggle or move. He just cocks his head. “I see you’re as quick as ever, so that’s not the problem. Who managed to get a hit on you?”
Leth’s mind blanks out.
The bruise shadowing his right eye is still tender when he thinks about it. He knows the purple-black is stark against his skin. He’s as quick as ever, but this morning, he just fucking stood there while Anton struck him. As if all the stones of Fort Tarhaeg weighed down his limbs. It never occurred to Leth to try to stop his brother’s hand.
“That’s none of your concern,” Leth snaps, dropping Evain’s wrist. He steps back as if that will cool the heat surrounding them. “Get to your point.”
He expects Evain to press the matter, but Evain just frowns, then says, “I’m leading an expedition to Lyrisenia. I need mages who can fight, and you’re well qualified for that. I’d like to hire you.”
“Absolutely not,” Leth answers immediately.
Evain laughs at that. The sound is—aggravating. Disorienting. “I pay well.”
“The pay isn’t the issue.” Leth irritably brushes the hair from his forehead and heads for the door.
“I payverywell.” Evain trails after him. “I assure you, the job description suits your godly moral standards. We’ll be cleaning up demons and wild magic in Lyrisenia. Sealing rifts and saving lives.”
“Did Ronan put you up to this?” Leth demands as they exit into the courtyard. Winter bites through his sweat-damp shirt, helping to clear his head.
