Total pages in book: 214
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
The way he moves and holds that sword might as well be a whispered threat in the ear of any who lay eyes on him.
Danger, says the voice.
Anyone with functioning instincts knows down to their bones that the word hardly captures the reality of it. Raith is lethal. Barely caged violence. And yet…
"Walls aren't always meant to defend those inside," Raith says as he begins to circle me. He's not yet in a fighting stance, but I feel the electric potential—the near certainty that he'll strike soon.
I sink into my knees like he taught me, imagining my feet as both heavy and fluid, ready to sink in and absorb in a block or flow into an attack at a moment's notice. I relax my wrist, letting my rapier rest with a relaxed wrist, parallel to the ground and pointed straight toward Raith, tracking his movements as he continues to circle me.
"So you'd have me believe your walls are protecting me? Is that it? You've caged yourself in because you're so dangerous?"
Without warning, he lunges, his blade a blur as it arcs toward my shoulder. I react on instinct, parrying the strike and using his momentum to slip past his guard, my own blade stopping inches from his ribs.
"Better," he acknowledges, genuine approval warming his voice. "You're learning."
"My teacher is… decent."
I hold his eyes for a moment, waiting for him to pick up the conversation where we left it. But he steps back, his body language making it clear.
Conversation over. It's time to train.
We settle into the familiar rhythm of training—attack, parry, riposte, retreat. With each session, the dance becomes more fluid, my body learning to anticipate his movements, to sense the shift in weight that precedes a strike, to recognize the subtle signs that telegraph his next attack.
But something is different tonight. There's a tension in the air between us that wasn't there before—or perhaps it was, and I'm only now allowing myself to acknowledge it. Raith moves closer than necessary when correcting my form, his fingers lingering when he adjusts my grip, his eyes holding mine a heartbeat longer than they should.
"You've been practicing," he observes after disarming me for the third time, though it took him twice as long as usual.
I retrieve my rapier, watching him carefully. "When I can."
"With your friends?"
"Sometimes. Usually alone." I settle back into my stance, blade raised. "Beck, Ambrose, and Mireen stay busy. They’re all caught up in relationships. Having fun when they can. Not exactly itching to spend every spare moment training like us.”
Raith's sword lowers slightly, interest flickering in his amber eyes. "Relationships… something you’re not spending time on?”
I put a fist on my hip, raising my eyebrows. “I’m with you or in the library every spare moment I have. When would I squeeze in sex?”
“Good,” he says.
I bite my lip, smirking. “Good? Why does it matter to you if I’m having sex with people, Raith?’
“Because you’re in a great deal of danger. It means you’re keeping your priorities straight. It’s good.” He raises his sword again. "Does your little fish have any guesses on what Aspect you'll manifest? Stories about unbound always talked about unique powers.
The question catches me off guard. I only know about the aspect because of the book and Voss. How the hells does Raith know to ask? "I... no. He hasn't said anything."
"Disappointing. If you're lucky, maybe you'll get a weird crown like him. You two could match."
The deadpan delivery makes me laugh, the sound echoing in the stone room. Raith's expression softens at the sound, something warmer than amusement flickering in his eyes.
"You know, for someone so terrifying, you can be surprisingly funny sometimes."
"Don't tell anyone," he says, mock-serious. "I have a reputation to maintain."
"Tell the fire touched if he mocks me again, I will eat him, starting with his feet. I will chew thoroughly."
"I'm not telling him that."
Typhon glares at me, but says no more.
We resume our sparring, but the atmosphere has shifted, the earlier tension giving way to something almost playful. Raith even offers occasional corrections without his usual brusque efficiency, explaining the reasoning behind certain movements, showing me how to use my smaller size to my advantage.
"You're thinking too much," he says after a particularly complex sequence leaves me winded and frustrated. "You're trying to match my strength instead of using your speed."
"Easy for you to say," I grumble, pushing sweat-dampened hair from my forehead. "You're built like a wall."
"Alright. If I'm a wall, then what chance of winning do you have if you try to be a smaller wall?"
My sour look is all the answer he gets.
"You're quick, Nessa. And clever. Use that. Don’t smash a wall into a wall. Climb it. Find a way around it."
I attack again, trying to follow his advice. Instead of meeting his powerful strikes directly, I redirect them, using his momentum against him. For several exchanges, we're evenly matched—until my foot slips on a patch of damp stone, throwing me off balance.