Drothiker

25.

        
"There is no time to rest," Alpenstride shoved Azryle, charging again.

Ever since he'd told her about Feast of Melodies, the cub had been training relentlessly. When Azryle wasn't around, he returned to the apartment to her committed to daggers. Not eating much, as if food would waver her routine. When she was not training with weapons, she drowned herself in books, endeavoring to read, as if expecting the duel to take place during the ball.

When Azryle returned from exploring another hopeless disaster with Vendrik today, Alpenstride had been wielding the sword in her bedroom, as if challenging an invisible opponent.

He'll admit it: she was honing faster than he'd anticipated—better than he'd anticipated. But if this continued, and she remained starving herself, overindulging herself so intensely, she might as well knacker a muscle or two.

This time when she attacked, too swiftly slithering out a dagger from beneath her sleeve, Azryle gripped her wrist.

The pommel of the sword in her other hand dashed for his waist to have him loosen his grip on her, but Azryle clutched that wrist too ... so delicate in his hands.

Her sword clunk to the tiles.

She bared her teeth and snarled up at him, exhaustion festering her blue eyes, hair—now stretching to her shoulders—disheveled. He noticed her nightclothes from yesterday, ink on her hands from writing. Azryle asked flatly, "Have you even bathed today?"

Her blink was slow. "Why, do I stink in your too-tidy apartment?"

"Yes."

Color bloomed at her now-full cheeks, but didn't avert her eyes, annoyance seized them. "We are rescinding for Olkfield tomorrow," the cub seethed, "I have no intentions of being your queen's dinner."

"I don't think she would regard you at all if you don't even bathe."

Her face flowered a darker shade of red—dark enough that her freckles almost disappeared—nose crinkled as she scowled. Syrene made to yank her hands out of his grip, but her efforts proved fruitless. She gritted her teeth hard enough that for a moment, Azryle braced himself for a crack. "Let me go." She grunted, struggling.

Azryle called for a kernel of baeselk mejest burrowed deep in. Invisible hands shot out of him.

He released her wrists from his hands, and she made to go for the sword.

But Azryle gripped her arms with those mythic hands, savoring in Alpenstride's widening eyes as she felt the touch, and pinned her to the wall, his mejest around her waist lifted her slightly. She began thrashing her feet against the wall, frantically eyeing her arms, her waist, searching for the unseen grip. "What the—"

He bent to lift her sword and the dagger. "I gave these to you to practice, not to drive your muscles to dysfunction."

Her whole body began thrashing against the wall, bared her teeth as she busted a gut to jerk herself out. "Release me!" Something like panic sparked in those eyes, her chest began heaving.

"Alpenstride, relax yourself—"

She began shouting. "RELEASE ME!" Silver lined her eyes. There was enough panic in her voice, her scent and face, that Azryle loosened his grip on her, began conveying her to floor—

As soon as he released her, she swept to her knees and began trembling, tears were spilling from her eyes. She didn't lift to her feet—instead, she clasped her knees and remained on the floor.