Page 60 of Sun, Moon & Shadow

He brought out a flask and took several gulps before tossing it in her direction and wiping his mouth with the back of a gloved hand. Nova caught the flask against her chest and lowered herself to the ground beside him.

“I don’t blame you.” She tilted her head back and drank greedily, the cool water easing her parched throat. A twinge of pain brought her fingers to her mouth, gently prodding at the split in her bottom lip. She’d caught Lucan’s elbow while sparring.

“Sorry about that,” he said, though his grin suggested he wasn’t particularly sorry.

Nova pressed her fingertips against her lip and closed her eyes. Recalling Callan’s instructions, she emptied her mind and visualized the injured flesh knitting itself back together. Warmth bloomed in the tips of her fingers and passed to her lip. When she drew her hand away a moment later, the wound was gone. She turned to Lucan, allowing herself a cocky raise of her eyebrow as she showed off her handiwork.

“How did you manage that?” he asked.

“Solar blood.”

Lucan clicked his tongue. “I suppose that explains how you walked away from a fight with a wolf.”

“A lycane, actually.”

Lucan’s brows shot up. He puffed out his cheeks and let out a slow whistle.

“But you’re right,” she said. “I nearly died. And I hope to never face one again.”

Lucan nodded, his expression almost sincere. “For your sake, I hope you never do either.” The sly glint returned to his eyes. “Because after what I saw today, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Gods above,” Nova groaned. “You truly are an ass.”

Twenty-Eight

Dusk was beginning to purple the sky when she woke. Nova quickly slipped into the breeches, shirt, and leather armor of her training uniform, securing her weapons in place. Lucan met her at the foot of the staircase holding an enormous savory hand pie for each of them, which they wolfed down as they headed for the sparring ring.

Just over a week had passed since her arrival in Silvergard, and Nova had already settled into a comfortable rhythm in the Lunar Court. For the first seven days of training, she faced off against Lucan, both of them wielding wooden swords as he taught her how to strike and block against an opponent in the style of a Silvergardian soldier. The Nivalian style Callan practiced was rooted in brutal offensive techniques and maneuvers, leveraging one’s size and strength against an opponent. The Silvergardian method incorporated evasive maneuvers, using speed and agility to best one’s opponent. Not being exceptionally large herself, Nova found she preferred the Silvergardian style.

Lucan never took it easy on her. In fact, she got the distinct impression that her trainer derived a sizable measure of joy every time she tumbled face-first onto the smooth stone floor of the sparring ring. Still, there was no denying her skills had already improved significantly under his instruction. Following their most recent session, he’d lost his patience and accused her of holding back.

Nova stood at the edge of the sparring ring, resting her hand lightly on the hilt of her sword. She would finally be training with a real blade, but Lucan wasn’t foolish enough to offer himself up as her first victim. She watched through narrowed eyes as he dragged a training dummy into the center of the ring. The figure was slightly taller than she was, stuffed with straw, and clothed in the traditional dress of Nivali. How Lucan had come by the garments, Nova didn’t wish to know.

“Friend of yours?” she asked, attempting to douse her irritation with sarcasm as Lucan steadied the mannequin on its round base.

He stood back with a hand on his hip, admiring his handiwork, and shook his head.

“Nah, he looks more like your type to me.” Lucan playfully flicked the insignia of crossed swords embroidered in silver thread on the chest of the faded, blue jacket.

Nova gritted her teeth.

“What?” Lucan clapped the mannequin on the back, a cloud of dust exploding into the air. “Isn’t he the spitting image of your wintry warrior?”

“His name is Callan.”

“Whatever.” Lucan snapped his fingers. “Tear him apart.”

Nova didn’t move, her breath quickening as she stared Lucan down.

“I want to see what you’ve got, Elsever.” His patience was wearing thin, but Nova remained motionless.

Lucan drew his sword, the metal singing as he pulled it from its sheath. “I wonder what you’d do if it really was Callan.” He raised his blade to the dummy’s neck. Drawing her own sword, Nova took two quick steps toward Lucan. He leapt back as she brought her weapon down, slicing through the air and slashing the mannequin’s blue jacket cleanly down the front.

Lucan sputtered as a laugh burst from his pursed lips, and Nova turned her blade on him, pressing the tip against his leather chest plate, just below his breastbone.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Lucan held his hands out in front of him, his laughter drying up in an instant.

“What’s wrong, Commander? Afraid to feel the kiss of Nivalian steel?” Nova asked, tight-lipped. “Remove the jacket.” Her instruction was calmly delivered through clenched teeth.