"I'm just getting started."
Zhera's voice was a breathless promise, her eyes sharp with fire. She launched forward again, her momentum untamed but not untrained. Her fists danced through the air with practiced ease, the rhythm of battle beginning to sink into her bones.
Xavriel blocked, side-stepped, ducked. He didn't need to try too hard—yet. But the curve of his mouth had changed. Gone was the amused smirk of earlier; now, something quieter played across his face. Curiosity.
"You're pushing harder today," he noted, circling her like a predator toying with another predator—not prey. "Is it for me, or are you just trying to prove you're not a fluke?"
She didn't reply. Instead, she feinted left and spun low, sweeping his legs with a force that almost took him down.
Almost.
He caught himself at the last second, sliding back with a smirk that barely masked the surprise flickering in his eyes.
He chuckled. "You'll have to work harder than that, wildcat."
"You're not half as untouchable as you think you are."
"Try me."
She did.
This time, her leg swung high with just enough delay to fake a pattern. He moved left—predictable. She switched feet mid-air and caught his side with her heel. The sound was satisfying: a low thud and the sharp hitch of his breath.
Xavriel's brows lifted. "You've been practicing."
She shrugged, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. "Maybe I just got tired of losing to an overgrown mosquito."
"You wound me, Zhera."
She smirked. "Not yet. But I plan to."
Another charge. Her pace was relentless, quickening with every turn, every block, every shift. Xavriel matched her easily—but not too easily. She was forcing him to use his full attention now, to meet her rhythm with focus.
She got in another jab, grazing his jaw. He twisted away with a grunt.
The sparring was faster now. Her strikes came with confidence, no longer hesitant or reactive. She was reading him, adapting. The wild chaos of their earlier sessions had been tempered by something sharper—something more dangerous.
She caught him in the side with a palm strike, and Xavriel actually staggered. For half a second.
"Oh, you're serious," he muttered, wiping a thumb across his lip. "Adorable.That one almost hurt," he muttered.
"That one was meant to."
Zhera twisted low, sweeping her leg toward his ankles, and he leapt over it—just barely. She lunged again, a palm strike aimed at his shoulder. He caught her wrist, but she pivoted, spun, and slipped free.
He looked genuinely caught off guard now, and something warm and amused flickered in his gaze.
"Fast. You're reading me," he said.
"You're not that hard to read."
"I'll take that as a compliment to my transparency."
"Take it however your ego needs to."
Zhera narrowed her eyes, darting forward again—but this time, she overcommitted. Her kick sailed toward his ribs, fierce and fast—too fast. She'd leaned in fully, trying to finish it.
He caught her ankle with one hand, spinning her momentum into the floor with a practiced sweep. The impact was sudden but not harsh. He had her pinned, one hand braced on her shoulder, the other catching her wrist just before it could smack into the mat.
Their breaths mingled in the silence that followed. Neither of them moved.
"You're dead, you let your guard down." he said simply.
Her eyes narrowed. "You cheated."
Xavriel tilted his head. "By being better?"
"By talking too much. You distracted me."
"Now, that," he said, leaning down just enough that she could feel the faintest brush of his breath against her jaw, "is a weakness you'll want to work on."
Zhera rolled her eyes and tried to sit up, but he didn't let go.
He glanced at her, then down at her wrist still held in his hand. "That kick—too much force, aimed at the wrong point. Your balance was off, and you left your ribs wide open. A sword to the gut would've ended it."
She huffed. "Noted."
"I know you want to overpower your opponent," he continued, voice softer now. "But strength without defense is recklessness. You don't get to be reckless, Zhera. You're more important than that."
There was something in the way he said her name—no teasing now. Just quiet intensity. Zhera blinked, not quite sure how to reply.
Xavriel seemed to realize how close they were and slowly stood, offering her his hand.
She ignored it, rolling to her feet on her own.
"Still smug?" she asked, brushing dirt off her shoulder.
He smiled. "Not smug. Just impressed."
"That makes one of us."
But her smirk matched his now. And even though her chest was heaving and every muscle screamed, there was a glow in her eyes—a thrill that hadn't been there before.
"You're the worst teacher."
"And yet you're improving."
She came at him again, swiping left, then right, then a well-timed feint with her elbow before snapping a kick toward his chest. He blocked, but only just. Her energy was rising like a tide, and Xavriel found himself weaving more defensively than offensively.
Zhera's breath came in gasps, her body slick with sweat, her legs steady despite the ache. She had him—almost.
Then, she overextended.
One kick too high. One second too slow pulling back.
Xavriel twisted his body, caught her ankle, and used her momentum to flip her once more. She landed hard, flat on her back, the wind knocked from her lungs. He was over her in an instant, pinning her with ease, one knee beside her hip, his hand pressing her shoulder into the mat.
He looked down at her, expression unreadable.
"Like I just said, you would've died if this was real combat." he said quietly.
Zhera didn't reply at first. Her chest heaved with each breath, her face flushed—not just from exertion. There was something else in her eyes now. Something quieter, more raw.
"I had you," she whispered.
"You almost had me," he corrected. "But you gave me everything in that last kick. No reserve, no guard. You committed without insurance. I already told you, that's not bravery, Zhera. That's recklessness."
"I thought I saw an opening."
"Openings are only useful if you survive after exploiting them."
Her jaw clenched. "So, what—you want me to fight like a coward?"
"No," he said. "I want you to fight like someone who plans to live."
The room stilled.
His hand was still on her shoulder. His knee still hovered by her hip. They were close—too close.
Her voice dropped. "Are you going to let me up?"
He didn't move for a heartbeat. Then another. Finally, he released her, standing in one fluid motion. He offered a hand. Zhera stared at it. Then ignored it and rolled to her feet. Again.
Xavriel arched a brow. "You really hate letting anyone help you, don't you?"
"Only when they're annoying."
"You know," he mused, picking up a towel and tossing it toward her, "you're dangerously close to becoming formidable."
She caught the towel mid-air. "Dangerously close? I'm insulted."
"You'll live."
"Thanks to your brilliant instruction, I assume."
"Of course. Where would you be without me?"
"Probably less bruised."
He chuckled and walked to the edge of the training room, pouring water into two glasses. He handed her one, watching her over the rim of his own.
"You didn't answer earlier," she said.
"About?"
"Why you seem so invested in training me. I know I'm a guest. But this…" She gestured to the bruises on her arms. "This doesn't feel like hospitality."
Xavriel tilted his head. "Let's just say… I have a feeling you'll need this more than you realize."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're vague and dramatic."
"Some might say mysterious."
"Those people are lying."
He smiled.
She sipped her water. "Still. Thanks."
"For the bruises?"
"For taking me seriously."
His smile faded slightly, replaced by something gentler.
"I always have."