Page 19 of Aryn

I nod at his sword. “We were ambushed. There are injuries. You were prepared enough to fight them off, but what do you do when I’m lying on the ground bleeding?”

“Then I hope you’re well enough to sew yourself back up,” he counters. “Maybe you’ll be the one with the nasty scars, then.”

Regret clenches in my chest, and my sword drops a fraction as I study the anger scribbled across his face. “Cato—”

He rushes forward, and I barely get my blade up in time to block him. There’s no sign of fatigue in his power or stance, even after the time he’d already spent out here before I arrived. The impact of his swings vibrates up my arm, my muscles screaming against the force of a man who easily outweighs me by fifty pounds. We spar until his blade shoves me back and my spine hits the fence.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say, pushing the words out between heavier breaths.

“You didn’t upset me,” he snarls. “This world doesn’t allow time for being upset.”

“Of course it does,” I argue.

“This world needs me to be hard. It needs me ready for fucking anything.”

I study the old pain that flares in his eyes. “What happened to you?”

His jaw tenses, and he gives a jerky shake of his head like he’s tossing the memories aside. “I got too comfortable, and I lost everything. You may have been locked inside a lab, but at least you were safe.” He charges forward, stopping so close I can feel the heat rolling off his body. “I haven’t felt safe a day in my fucking life.”

“Safe?” I breathe. “You think I was safe there?”

His nostrils flare, his heavy breath brushing across my cheek. “You have no idea what my life has looked like.”

“And you do?” I demand, holding his gaze. “You know anything about what was taken from me? What I lost?” My sword swings up, knocking him back. Fury propels me forward as he fights to counter my attack. “This may be nothing more than a mission to you, but this is my home. This is my chance to take back what was stolen from me!”

“And what about what was stolen from me?” he demands, regaining the advantage. He drives me back with swings so heavy they rattle my spine and shake my bones, then presses the tip of his blade against my sternum and shoves. My back hits the dirt as I stare up at the moonlight pouring through the copper strands of his hair.

“What did they take from you?” I ask softly.

The fight drains out of him, and he tosses the sword aside. “They took enough.”

“And so you prepare.”

When his eyes meet mine again, they’re hard with determination. “And so I prepare.”

“You don’t have to do it alone.” I stand, dusting myself off as I watch his movements for any sign of another attack.

“I’ve always done everything alone. I’ve never had a choice.”

His sword lies on the ground a few paces away. I take a cautious step forward and pick it up. “You can’t charge into this like a renegade mercenary, Cato. This is too important.”

“I won’t—”

“I need you,” I interrupt. “We all need your head in the game, or we’re doomed to fail from the start. And that isn’t an option. Not here. Not with this.”

He stares at me for a long moment before dipping his chin in silent acknowledgment. “Are you just going to stand there all night, or are we going to keep training?”

A quiet laugh huffs out of me. I toss his sword back to him and settle into a fighting stance once more.

The nights have fallen into a rhythm neither of us acknowledges during the day. Each evening, after the village settles and the lights fade from windows, I slip out into the dark. I tell myself it’s to clear my head, but every night, I listen for the sounds of Cato training and follow them like a beacon.

He’s always there in the training circle, waiting with his sword in hand. We never speak of it in daylight. Not over meals, not during planning sessions, not even when our eyes meet across the fire. It’s easier that way—pretending we’re not both terrified enough to keep meeting like this. Pretending we aren’t feeling the weight of all this responsibility so much that it keeps us up at night, urging us to prepare just a little more.

Tonight is no different. I arrive to find him already moving through forms, moonlight glinting off the sweat on his arms. He’s stunning in the soft yellow glow, face pulled tight in concentration. The sight pulls at something low in my stomach… something I have no business feeling. I watch the controlled power in his movements a moment longer than I should, then step into the ring.

He doesn’t greet me. He never does. He simply turns, tosses me a practice sword, and drops into stance.

We spar harder tonight, blades clacking sharply in the still air. Each exchange leaves me more aware of him. The way his breath hitches when I press him back, the flex of muscle across his shoulders, and the focused intensity in his eyes whenever our gazes lock.