The fire had burned low, no more than a smear of embers in the dirt, casting long shadows over the clearing. Ivaran listened to the night—the hush of the wind through the pines, the distant crash of waves against the cliffs beyond the trees. The sea was close. Two days, maybe less, and they’d be gone. The corpse of Avalkhir behind them. The war behind them.

If they made it that far.

He ran a thumb along the hilt of his sword, rolling his shoulders to shake off the stiffness that came from too many days on the road, too many nights sleeping with one ear open. This was the last stretch. He should have been focused on reaching the coast, on finding the ship that would take them away from the blood-soaked ruins of the kingdom.

Instead, he stood in the half-light, watching her square her stance, sword in hand, waiting.

She had insisted on training, and he should have said no. Should have told her that there wasn’t time, that she wasn’t a warrior, that swinging a blade wouldn’t change the fact that she was a fugitive princess with a target on her back, barely one step ahead of death.

But he hadn’t.

Because he’d seen it in her eyes—the need to be something more than what she was. So he drew his own sword.

"Show me," he said.

She lunged, but Ivaran was already moving, the world narrowing to footsteps, steel, breath. His blade caught hers with a sharp ring, redirecting the strike with effortless precision. Too stiff. Too predictable. He swept his foot behind hers and knocked her off balance, the flat of his blade tapping against her ribs as she stumbled.

"Dead," he murmured. She reset. Tried again. Faster this time. Not fast enough. He sidestepped the swing with ease, twisting into a disarming maneuver that sent her sword spinning from her grip. It landed in the dirt between them with a dull thud.

"Dead again," he said, watching as her shoulders tensed, frustration simmering beneath the surface. Ivaran sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. He knew that anger. The way it coiled tight in the chest, the way it made every failure feel like drowning. He had been there once, standing before Aldric, his knuckles bloodied from catching himself on the ground too many times, his ribs aching from the countless reminders of how easy it was to die.

"Get up."

"Again."

"You’re not fighting me. You’re fighting yourself."

Ivaran inhaled slowly and let the old words settle on his tongue before speaking.

"You’re still forcing it," he said. "You’re swinging like you have something to prove."

He stepped closer, tapping the hilt of his sword against her grip.

"The blade isn’t a hammer. It’s a limb. It moves with you, not against you. Stop fighting it."

She didn’t answer, but he saw it—the way her fingers flexed around the hilt, the way she shifted her weight, recalculating. Good. That was good.

The fire crackled behind them, spitting sparks into the cold air. The wind carried the briny scent of the ocean, the promise of escape just beyond the ridgeline. So close.

He should be thinking about that. Should be planning their next move, should be anticipating the moment when the wrong pair of eyes spotted them, when they were cornered and outnumbered and all of this—the running, the bleeding, the barely surviving—came crashing down. But instead, he was standing here in a nameless clearing, teaching her how to fight. Teaching her how to survive. And he hated it.

Hated how it reminded him of nights spent in the courtyard with Aldric, of lessons that had carved themselves into his bones, of a man who had given him everything, only to bleed out on the stones of a dying city.

He exhaled, pushing the thought away.

"Again," he said. This time, when she came at him, he had to actually move. The strike wasn’t perfect—not yet—but it was sharper, more intentional. He had to sidestep instead of simply shifting his weight. When he parried, her feet adjusted with the momentum instead of overextending.

His lips quirked slightly. Progress. But not enough.

He twisted, knocking her sword away, using her own force against her. But this time—she caught herself before she hit the ground.

That made him pause.

She was learning.

She was changing.

And that meant soon, there’d be no reason for him to stay.

The thought landed heavier than he expected.

Ivaran sheathed his blade, the motion sharp, decisive. The sky had deepened into shades of indigo and bruised gold, the stars beginning to wake. The air smelled of salt and cold earth, and the sea whispered just beyond the trees.

"You’ll get it," he said quietly. Not a compliment. Not quite. Just a truth, waiting to happen.