I woke before dawn, but it felt like I hadn't slept at all. My body ached from the yard drills the day before, and my head was heavy with questions I didn't want answers to. The room was quiet except for the faint creak of the manor settling, and the scent of clean linen and faint woodsmoke clung to the air.
I sat up slowly, rubbing the back of my neck. My dreams had been restless, shifting between the dark forest and the sharp, cold look in Tomas's eyes. Every time I thought I'd slipped under, I'd jolt awake, sure I'd heard something moving in the hall.
I pushed the blanket off and swung my legs to the floor. My boots were still by the bed where I'd left them. I laced them quickly, pulling my hair into a rough knot at the nape of my neck. If Tomas wanted me in the yard again today, I'd be ready.
The corridor outside was dim, the sconces casting long shadows along the walls. The air was cool, carrying the faint smell of pine from the forest beyond. No voices. No footsteps. Just the sound of my own breathing.
I found the kitchen first. One of the shifter servants slid a plate toward me without a word — bread, cheese, and a slice of cold roast. I ate standing at the counter, watching the light creep higher through the window. When I finished, I left the plate where it was and headed for the yard.
Derek was already there, leaning against the fence like he'd been waiting for me. He didn't speak. Just tipped his chin toward the ring.
"Again?" I asked.
"Again," he said.
I dropped into the dirt, stretching my legs before moving toward the weapon rack. Derek stepped in front of me. "Not today."
Before I could ask what that meant, a heavier presence pulled my attention to the far end of the yard. Tomas stood there, coat thrown over one shoulder, boots dusted from the walk. His gaze was locked on me.
"Inside," he said.
Derek didn't argue. He turned away, leaving me to follow Tomas back into the manor. The air inside was warmer, and quieter. Tomas didn't speak until we reached a long, narrow room lined with racks of weapons and leather armor.
"You're going to learn something new today," he said.
"I thought that's what yesterday was for," I said.
His mouth curved, but it wasn't amusement. "Yesterday you played at training. Today you begin."
He took a blade from the rack — longer than the short sword Derek had given me yesterday, narrower and sharper. The balance was different, lighter, meant for speed rather than brute force. He held it out.
I took it, testing the grip.
"This isn't about strength," Tomas said. "It's about intent. I want to see what you do when the strike matters."
I turned the blade in my hands. "And if I fail?"
"Then you bleed," he said simply.
The ring was smaller than the yard, floored with packed earth. Tomas stepped into the center and drew his own blade — a twin to the one in my hand. His movements were unhurried, almost casual, but the weight behind them made the air feel tighter.
"Attack me," he said.
I hesitated.
"Now."
I moved. My first strike was clumsy, but fast enough to make him shift his stance. He countered easily, turning my blade aside and stepping in close. The point of his sword kissed the hollow of my throat before I could blink.
"Again," he said.
We went back and forth. Every strike I made, he met with just enough resistance to keep me on edge. Every block he threw at me forced me to adjust faster. I was breathing hard after only a few minutes, sweat running down my spine.
He didn't slow.
"You're holding back," he said.
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are. I can feel it."
I grit my teeth and pushed harder. My swings grew sharper, my footwork quicker. I caught the edge of his blade once, twice, the clash ringing in my bones. For a moment I thought I'd actually driven him back.
Then his boot hooked behind my ankle and I was on my back, the breath knocked out of me. The point of his sword hovered just above my sternum.
"Dead," he said.
I shoved the blade aside and rolled to my feet. "Then maybe stop playing games and tell me what you want from me."
His eyes narrowed. "I want the truth."
We stood there, breathing hard. The silence stretched until it felt like the air itself was holding still.
"You're not just a fox," he said finally. "You've got instincts you shouldn't. Reflexes you've never trained for. You hear things you shouldn't be able to hear. I want to know why."
I said nothing.
He stepped closer. "If you don't tell me, I'll find out myself."
The way he said it left no doubt he meant it.
Before I could answer, the door opened. Callum stepped in, eyes flicking between us. "If you're done trying to kill her, the healer's looking for her."
Tomas didn't look away from me. "We're not done."
I followed Callum out, grateful for the excuse to leave. The corridor felt cooler after the training room.
"What was that?" Callum asked as we walked.
"What was what?"
He gave me a look. "You fight like someone who's been doing it for years. But that's not what Derek told me."
"I pick things up fast," I said.
"Sure," he said, but his tone said he didn't believe me.
We reached Garth's workroom. The healer glanced up from the table, his long fingers stained with ink from the notes he'd been taking. "You're late."
"Didn't know I had an appointment," I said.
"You do now. Sit."
I perched on the edge of the chair while he rummaged through a stack of vials. "The King wants me to run a few tests," Garth said.
"What kind of tests?"
"The kind that tell me if you're going to drop dead in the middle of a fight," he said. "Or something worse."
He handed me a small cup of bitter-smelling liquid. "Drink."
I eyed it. "What's in it?"
"Nothing that will kill you. Probably."
I drank it in one swallow. The taste was sharp, metallic. My tongue tingled.
Garth leaned in, watching my eyes. "Interesting."
"What?"
"Your pulse just spiked. Not fear. Instinct. Like your body's reacting to something it already knows."
I gripped the arms of the chair. "Meaning?"
"That's for the King to decide," he said.
By the time he let me go, the light outside had shifted. I headed for my room, thinking I might actually get a few quiet hours before the next round.
I was wrong.
Tomas was waiting at my door.
"You're coming with me," he said.
"Where?"
"You'll see."
He led me through the manor and out into the trees. The air was crisp, the forest floor damp underfoot. We didn't speak. After a few minutes, the path narrowed, and I realized we were heading toward the old training ground I'd seen once before — the one Derek had called the proving ring.
At the edge of the clearing, Tomas stopped and turned to me. "You wanted to know what I want from you," he said. "This is it. I want to see what you are when you have no choice but to fight."
I glanced at the ring. "And who am I fighting?"
He stepped aside. Derek was already inside, blades in hand.
"Try not to die," Tomas said.