Page 156 of Of Iron and Moonlight

The Tsuchitsan pressed a hand to his chest. “I have a husband at home in Verdanai. Denzato. He is the finest healer I have ever known. When he works, you begin to wonder whether the wound existed at all.”

“We cannot all be gifted at everything,” Elara said. “Where healing confounds you, you are unmatched with herbs and potions.”

“That is true enough.” Kalaetzu’s smile deepened. “Together we kept a modest clinic, with an apothecary attached. He welcomed patients. I brewed the medicine. People arrived in pain and left with hope.” He sighed. “My home is wherever he is.”

Elara’s heart clenched. “Does Denzato know where you are?”

Kalaetzu shook his head. “As far as he knows, I traveled to Elverglend for supplies and never returned. Perhaps he believes I chose not to. Perhaps he grieved, waited, and then stopped.” His voice thinned. “I do not know. Part of me is afraid to learn.”

“I am sorry,” Elara whispered. The ache within her widened to make room for his. The thought of being parted from Njall without explanation was enough to terrify her.

“It is life,” Kalaetzu said quietly. “We endure it, or it continues without us.” He turned to Gavriel. “Surely a handsome man like you left someone behind. A sweetheart who misses you.”

Gavriel chuckled dryly. “There were one or two I believed I loved when I was younger and much less wise. But I doubt there will be anyone again for some time, given my state.”

“Do not say that,” Elara said at once. “Do not surrender your future to what was done to you. You are healing. You are already stronger than you were even a week ago.”

Gavriel sighed and looked toward the snow drifting beyond the cave.

Kalaetzu cleared his throat. “I may not be the healer Denzato is, but I know something of rebuilding what has been weakened. Your body would benefit from training. We all would.”

“An excellent idea,” Elara said, pushing to her feet. “My toes are vanishing again.”

Gavriel nodded, slow but willing.

They rose and followed Kalaetzu through a series of cautious, clumsy stretches. Elara nearly toppled during a lunge and caught herself with a laugh. Gavriel managed a few squats, his jaw tightening as neglected strength protested, then forced out another round through sheer stubbornness. It was ungainly and imperfect, but for a little while the cave held laughter and the slow release of stiffness from muscle and bone instead of dread.

“What am I witnessing?”

Njall’s frame filled the entrance, expression warring between concern and perplexity.

Elara balanced on one foot, working out a cramp. “We are trying to keep from freezing solid,” she called, cheeks flushed. “And to remind Gavriel his muscles still exist.”

Njall studied them a moment, then set down the packs he carried. All four slid from his shoulders with dull thumps: his, hers, Gavriel’s, Kalaetzu’s. He unfastened the twin swords from his back, weighed them briefly, then tossed one toward Gavriel and kept the other.

“If you want to rebuild strength,” he said, “it would be more efficient to spar.”

Gavriel caught it. The weight dragged his arm lower than it once would have, but he adjusted, fingers tightening around the grip. “I am not certain I can keep up.”

“We begin where you are,” Njall replied. “We take it slow.”

Gavriel tested the blade with a few tentative swings, feeling the difference in reach and balance. Then he shrugged off his cloak and gave a brief nod.

Njall stripped away his heavier layers, then settled into a guard stance, blade angled, feet firm against stone. “Easy now. If your strength dips, we stop.”

Gavriel’s mouth curved faintly. “So we begin as we once did,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Only this time without lies between us.”

Njall made a low sound that was not quite agreement, yet not quite refusal.

“Well, if heroics are underway,” Kalaetzu said, easing himself against a pack, “I shall rest my ancient bones. Wake me if anyone loses a limb.” Within moments he drifted into sleep.

Elara feigned sorting through provisions while her attention kept returning to the center of the cave—to Gavriel and Njall and the fragile weave between them.

The first passes were slow. Gavriel relearned the motions, moving with remnants of former grace. He tired quickly, and his footwork often faltered. Yet a stubborn spark remained in the way he turned his wrist, and each time he stumbled, he reset and tried again.

Njall adjusted without comment, gauging how much force to allow. When Gavriel’s arm sagged, he shortened his reach. When Gavriel’s footing slipped, he eased the pressure. He left openings just visible enough for Gavriel to claim. At times he allowed a strike to land, light enough to restore some fragment of confidence.

It was less a spar than a dance of memory and restraint. And beneath it, something fragile took shape again: a friendship rebuilt strike by strike.