Chapter 8 “Training Grounds,”

“Chapter 7: Training Grounds,”

────── ꕥ ⋅ IVORY ⋅ ꕥ ──────

"You want me to what?"

"Learn to defend yourself." Rage stood across the training room in loose black clothes instead of his usual suit, looking somehow more dangerous this way, less polished, more raw. "If Armand's people come again, I need you capable of buying yourself time."

"I'm a painter, Rage. Not a fighter."

"You're a woman who might be part of a prophecy powerful enough to reshape two supernatural worlds." He tossed me a training blade, hilt first, easy for me to catch. "I think you're capable of more than you give yourself credit for."

I caught the blade and immediately felt ridiculous holding it.

"I don't know how to use this."

"Then let's fix that."

For the next hour he taught me stances, basic footwork, how to redirect force instead of meeting it head on. He was patient in a way I hadn't expected from someone who'd survived four centuries of actual warfare, correcting my grip with careful hands, adjusting my balance without ever making me feel stupid for not already knowing.

"You're a natural," he said, after I finally landed a clean strike against his raised guard.

"I highly doubt that."

"I don't say things I don't mean." He circled me slowly, assessing. "Again. This time, don't telegraph the strike before you throw it."

We trained until sweat soaked through my shirt and my arms shook from exertion, and somewhere in the middle of it, I stopped thinking about wolves and prophecies and council politics entirely. There was something clarifying about the focus training demanded, something that quieted the constant hum of fear I'd been carrying since the auction.

"Better," Rage said finally, calling a stop. "Much better."

"I feel like I got hit by a truck."

"You'll feel that way for a week. Then your body adjusts." He handed me a towel, close enough that I caught the clean, warm scent of him. "We'll do this every day. Non negotiable."

"Bossy."

"Practical." But his mouth curved slightly. "I'd rather you resent me for making you train than bury you because I didn't."

The bluntness of it landed harder than he probably intended.

"You really think it's going to come to that."

"I think preparing for the worst means it's less likely to happen." He set his own blade down, studying me. "How are you handling all this? Really. Not the version you tell me to keep me from worrying."

I considered lying. Considered giving him the calm, capable version of myself I'd been performing since the panic room.

"I'm scared out of my mind," I admitted instead. "Every time I close my eyes I hear those wolves. I keep waiting for the floor to drop out again."

"That's a reasonable response to what you've survived." He stepped closer, careful. "You don't have to pretend to be fine with me."

"It's exhausting. Pretending."

"Then stop." His hand found my jaw, gentle, tilting my face up to his. "I already know you're terrified. I'd rather you be honest about it than perform strength you don't currently have."

"Is that what you do? With four hundred years of practice?"

"No." Something raw crossed his expression. "I've been performing strength since Thessaly died. I don't actually remember what honest fear feels like anymore. I just know how to look like I've conquered it."

"That sounds lonely."

"It is." He held my gaze. "You're the first person in two centuries I haven't had to perform anything for."

My chest tightened at that admission, at the weight of what he was actually saying underneath the words.

"Rage—"

A knock interrupted us, sharp and urgent, and Delphine appeared in the doorway before either of us could respond, her expression tight with barely contained alarm.

"We have a problem," she said without preamble.

"What kind of problem?" Rage's whole posture shifted instantly, warmth replaced by cold readiness.

"Armand requested an audience." Delphine held out a formal looking envelope, black wax seal pressed into thick cream paper. "With both of you. Tomorrow evening. Council chambers."

Rage went very still.

"He's never requested anything from me directly," Rage said slowly. "Not since Thessaly."

"I know." Delphine's eyes flicked to me, worried. "Which is exactly why this is a problem."

I took the envelope with hands that had gone suddenly cold, staring down at the wax seal like it might bite.

"What does he want?" I asked.

"I don't know," Rage admitted, and for the first time since I'd met him, he looked genuinely uncertain, the confident mask slipping just enough to show the fear underneath. "But whatever it is, he's making a move he hasn't made in two hundred years."

"Should I be worried?"

"Yes." He didn't soften it, didn't lie to spare me. "You should be very worried. And so should I."

The training room suddenly felt very small, the wooden blade still clutched in my hand feeling far too flimsy against whatever was coming for us next.

"Then let's keep training," I said, surprising myself with how steady my voice came out. "If I'm walking into a council chamber tomorrow, I want to at least know how to defend myself if it comes to that."

Something flickered in Rage's eyes, pride mixed with fear mixed with something warmer underneath both.

"All right," he said, picking his blade back up. "Again. And this time, don't hold back."

I didn't.

────── ꕥ ⋅ ꕥ ──────