Page 70 of The First Scar
I hadchosento walk in his wake. My instincts—the ones I'd sharpened on rooftops and back alleys and every betrayal this city had ever handed me—had looked at the Crownforged and decidedsafe. Reclassified him somewhere between the last breath and this one, and I hadn't even noticed it happening.
That was worse. That was so much worse.
Because a feeling could be smothered. A reaction could be rationalized. But a tactical instinct? That meant some part of me—not the marks, not my body,me—had already started trusting him.
And I didn't know how to take that back.
Chapter 16
AMARIA
I needed to get the feel of him off my skin.
That was the only reason I was in the ring at this hour, driving Brannick back with a ferocity that bordered on reckless. I needed to sweat out the memory of the alcove—the phantom weight of Eryndor's chest against my back, the humiliating fact that my hands had stopped shaking the moment he took control.
The cavern air felt charged, thick with the scent of exertion. It tasted like iron and rot—the Nullatheon's calling card. Thehairs on my arms stood up and my breath came out thinner than it should have underground. My muscles screamed. Good. Pain was honest. Pain didn't pretend to be something it wasn't. Unlike certain Crownforged soldiers I could name.
Movement in my peripheral.
My guard dropped a fraction. Brannick lunged for the gap but I was already gone—pulled sideways by something at the edge of my vision.
Eryndor.
He'd entered through the far tunnel, silent as a shadow. Now he moved through the empty space with that brutal, economical grace. He wasn't looking at me. Wasn't looking at anything, really. Just running drills of his own, blade cutting the air in patterns I didn't recognize.
"Hey." Brannick's voice, low. "You still with me?"
I forced my eyes back to him. "Yes. Harder," I snarled, blocking Brannick's practice blade and shoving him back. "Stop coddling me."
"I'm not coddling, I'm surviving." But he grinned and came at me again, matching my intensity. His Fervor radiated outward—his Mark made everyone around him fight harder, feel braver, as long as his faith held. Right now, it wrapped around my exhaustion like a hand hauling me back to my feet. "There she is. The little flame I've been waiting for."
I didn't smile back. Couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hands on my hips. That grip around my wrist, pulling me up from the ledge I'd been too reckless to clear. The way he'd looked at me after—not angry or smug, just knowing.
Like he'd seen exactly what I was trying to prove and wasn't impressed.
And Eryndor drifted closer.
He wasn't sparring anymore. He was circling. Moving through the ring with apparent casualness, but always ending up within earshot. Within correcting distance.
"Higher guard, Scar-Bearer," the Crownforged said, his words slipping through Brannick's cheerful instruction.
Two exchanges later: "Too much weight on your back foot."
I shifted. Said nothing. Kept my eyes on Brannick.
Brannick shot me a look—you okay?—but I shook my head and pressed on. Ignored the shadow at my periphery. Focused on the drill.
Thrust. Parry. Reset.
"Your elbow—"
"I know."
The words came out sharper than I intended. Brannick's blade paused mid-swing. Across the ring, Maxx's sprawl became suddenly attentive.
Eryndor stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell the faint metallic tang of old sweat. His hand hovered near my shoulder—not touching, just there—as he adjusted his stance to demonstrate a correction I hadn't asked for.
"If you drop it any lower, you'll—"
