Page 23 of Sun, Moon & Shadow

“I want to learn to fight,” she said. “Callan offered to teach me, and I accepted.” Callan’s spine straightened as she turned to face him. “If you’re free.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too eager.

“But what about my gown?” Fawn whined.

“Honestly, Fawn. You have much better taste than I do. I wouldn’t even be any help,” Nova said.

“Very well.” Fawn rose from the table and climbed the stairs, pausing to call Nova a deserter before disappearing into the hallway above.

Nova passed beneath the archway leading to the training field, a wide expanse of dirt and yellowing grass rolled out under an open sky. She wore the black breeches and loose-fitting shirt she’d commissioned from the seamstress. The brown leather riding boots she wore the night she crossed the Boundary were free of mud, but three drops of blood marred the toe of the left one. Her dagger hung at her waist, held in place with a braided leather cord fashioned into a belt.

Nova threw her shoulders back, her thick braid swishing back and forth as she strode across the grass. She turned the corner around a wooden equipment rack but stopped short, shrinking behind it when she spied Callan already on the field.

He slashed and struck at an invisible opponent, his movements flowing as elegantly as a dancer’s, contrasting sharply with the hard lines of his tall frame. His long, muscular torso was visible through his shirt, which stuck to the sweat gathering along his spine. Nova spied faint black lines beneath the thin fabric, evidence of more markings on his back. Her mind sprinted with imaginings of what they might be. Half up and gathered with a leather cord at the back of his head, some of his hair had come loose toward the front, the dark strands clinging to his forehead.

Callan was different on the training field. She had only seen him quiet and reserved, spine straight with hands clasped behind his back. She was uncertain what to make of this Callan—wild and unrestrained, grunting with the force of his strikes. Nova drew her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down, tracking his movements like a huntress concealed behind a blind. Disappointment washed over her when he completed the sequence and stood under the autumn sun, chest heaving as he swiped a shirtsleeve across his brow.

“What a fetching ensemble.” Evander’s teasing voice came from behind her, and she spun to face him. Though he’d changed from his fine clothing into more casual attire, he still wore his signature smirk. He carried a fine redwood bow in his hand and a quiver full of arrows at his back.

“It hardly seems practical to train in a gown and silk slippers,” Nova replied, praying her cheeks didn’t look half as flushed as they felt.

“Now that I’d like to see,” Evander drawled, stepping in closer. “Honestly, why would you bother to train out here in the dirt when you’ve got me to protect you?”

He glanced away, spotting Callan on the field over her shoulder.

“Hello, cousin,” he called out, waving Callan over. “What were you doing out there?”

“Nothing really,” Callan answered, still a bit out of breath. “Just running through a strike sequence.” He eyed Nova’s training uniform and nodded approvingly.

Evander hooked a finger under Nova’s chin, turning her face toward his. “Seek me out when you’re ready to handle a superior weapon.” His eyes went to Callan. “Any brute can swing a sword. It takes skill and precision to strike one’s mark from a distance.” With that, the heir of Pyralis sauntered past them toward the row of straw targets lining the far side of the field.

Nova bit the inside of her cheek and fiddled with the hilt of her dagger. “You’re very skilled,” she said, gesturing to Callan’s sword.

His smile beamed, but he dipped his head toward the ground. “Would you like to hold it?”

He stretched out his arm, offering his weapon to her. Nova took it by the hilt; her arm dropped like a stone with the sheer weight of it. Hefting the sword up with both hands, she admired the craftsmanship and the shiny blade engraved with characters from an unfamiliar language.

“What does this writing say?” she asked.

“It’s a charm of sorts. A Nivalian custom to ensure the blade always strikes its target.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, handing it back to him.

“It was my father’s.” His gold-flecked eyes found hers, and she instantly recognized the loss reflected in them.

Callan slid the sword carefully into its sheath and laid it on a wooden bench.

“So, what do you have planned for me?” she asked, aiming for a cheerful tone.

“I think it’s best you start with your dagger and work your way up to a sword.”

“Let’s begin,” Nova said. Callan turned to lead the way as Nova pulled the dagger from her belt. “Shit.”

The bite of the blade hurt less than her embarrassment at her clumsiness. Callan twisted to face her as she brought her forefinger to her mouth and drew the tip between her lips to stem the flow of blood. His eyes dimmed a shade darker for an instant, his jaw ticking once. The muscles in Nova’s lower belly tensed at his reaction, but the sultry look in his eyes vanished, quickly replaced with concern, as he held out his hand to her. Begrudgingly, she allowed him to inspect her injury.

“It’s nothing,” she said, shrugging off the shiver rippling through her at his touch before pulling out of his grasp. “It will probably be healed in a few hours anyway.”

Callan nodded and led her out onto the field.