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“I need to train.”
She couldn’t stop it—that need to do
something. To be in motion.
No matter how many times she swung her
blade, she could feel them. The shackles. And
whenever she paused to rest, she could feel it,
too—her magic. Waiting.
Indeed, it seemed to open an eye and yawn.
She clenched her jaw, and attacked again.
Rowan met each blow, and she knew her
maneuvers were descending into sloppiness.
Knew he let her continue rather than seizing
the many openings to end it.
She couldn’t stop. War raged around them.
People were dying. And she had been locked
in that damned box, had been taken apart
again and again, unable to do anything—
Rowan struck, so fast she couldn’t track it.
But it was the foot he slid before her own that
doomed her, sending her careening into the