The shearing of steel on pumice vibrated through Chyrie's wrist as she worked. Soot smudged the fading tan of her skin, the grit of metal shavings rubbing between her fingers as she pressed the blade into her stone over and over again.
Behind her, Dailes pretended to be asleep, but she'd noticed his breathing change an hour ago.
And Xiran—Xiran had left at the break of light without his pack.
She'd eyed it with curiosity, mesmerized by the stuffed pockets he'd willingly left unattended. After sleeping beside her all night. Chyrie didn't understand the strange pulse of her heart as she scooted closer to the leather bindings and unfastened a thick cleaver.
A curved ax with polished walnut for the grip.
Her finger pricked over the aging wood, spurs Xiran's calloused hands likely didn't feel. The hardwood was wearing, seared with runes in the hilt as well as the blade itself.
Chyrie heaved her weakened frame–thighs quaking with over-exertion– to the bench beside her anvil and began gently polishing the hilt.
As her thumb worked the rush over the hilt, methodically smoothing over the surface with dried, marsh grass. The texture nipped at her skin until she was finished, leaving a smooth wood.
Careful to avoid the impressions and carvings, Chyrie soaked a rag in coal water and rubbed the hilt down in a few sweeping motions before pulling out a tincture of beeswax and sealing it over.
Her concept of time warped as she worked, sharpening the blade and moving to test it against her arm.
"What are you doing?"
Chyrie's body went stiff when she realized her mistake.
Xiran's voice was a soft memory against the cavern walls, his attention drawn to the blade in her hand.
Where she anticipated anger, she only found a gentle smile.
"You helped me," she murmured, glancing back toward his ax. "I thought I might repay such kindness the only way I knew how."
Chyrie watched a few hairs fall to the floor and nodded to herself.
With a wraith's silence, Xiran stepped toward the forge with little hesitation, his hand resting against the flat face of her anvil. He leaned down to inspect her craftsmanship, his chin a scales length away from her shoulder.
Chyrie stole a secret breath at his nearness, gaze holding steady on the ax.
A warm hum brushed against her ear as Xiran used his free hand to brush away several straying strands of hair.
"You've done well to avoid the jera," he said.
"Is that what these runes are called?"
"Some," he answered, nodding. "Others might be called Uruz or Berkanas. Your intention is what matters most."
Chyrie pointed to one similar to a lightning strike. "What does this one mean?"
"To protect."
She blinked, heat flooding her cheeks.
"The wielder?"
Xiran carefully took the ax from her, examining the marks with sadness as he considered.
"It is considered more than a spell, but a vow to protect. The Jera prevents the blade from turning on its master."
Chyrie's gaze flickered from the beautifully scorched runes to the hidden pain still lining Xiran's irises. He offered her answers without ever delving into those depths, a pain she was sure he'd been out-running for some time.
"Where have you been?"
Noticing her quick diversion, he chuckled.
"Scouting," Xiran replied, straightening to his full height, he took a step back. "Anryth's men are returning from the coast. He's a day's trek south."
Chyrie nodded, glancing back to see Dailes with one eye peeked open. She tugged on the mental bond lingering between them, but there was no response. The drakeling simply closed his eyes and pretended not to feel her.
He'd been ignoring her for hours now and the feeling brewed like sludge in her guts.
"You've crafted the blades, highness, but have you wielded them?"
A new torment thundered to life in her chest as Chyrie gripped her hidden dagger and whipped it out.
"Of course I have."
In the privacy of her cell, alone. Chyrie had only twilighted with her blades, cutting through several porous matts and old bones to test their metal. Hanging onto the training her father and brother poured into her, she did her best to keep in shape.
Xiran's brow lifted for a moment, a faint show of amusement before vanishing into the unreadable stone she'd come to learn. He analyzed her stance, sizing her up.
Those stormy eyes washed over her again and again, until Xiran made up his mind.
"What?"
The mer simply stared at her, gesturing towards him.
Chyrie's skin crawled under the weight of his gaze, her leg shifting outward. She couldn't read him.
Within the heat of the forge, a welcomed breeze was the only sound rustling against the branches outside.
"What?" she asked again, her voice sharp.
"Come," Xiran answered, edging toward the iron bars.
The clearing between the gates imprisoning her and the forge spanned several feet in each direction– anymore than that and the magma and rubble became a risk.
As she cleared the anvil, carefully scooting the rack with her finished blade back, Chyrie stepped into the small open patch of dirt around them.
"Grab your sword."
Without thinking, she did.
Bitterness coated her tongue, encouraging the widened stance she dropped into. She'd trained long enough to surprise him, certainly.
Xiran remained upright, his ax loosely clutched at his side as he observed her new posturing. His free hand flexed outward and relaxed.
When Chyrie understood she'd be the first to move, she launched herself into an attack, slicing down diagonally and swinging back for his neck.
Parrying with the base of his weapon, Xiran glided into her space, shoving his shoulder into her stomach.
The air staggered from her lungs and she fell back.
He hadn't even bothered to attack with his blade.
Chyrie rose to her feet and rubbed her dusty sleeve against chapped lips.
"Again," he murmured.
Chyrie shook her head. "Why are we doing this?"
Xiran's seabrine eyes dimmed, but he ignored her question.
Taking a calm, assessing breath, Chyrie felt her tension ease. She watched the way he favored his open arm and tracked his attention around the room.
When she saw an opening, she took it.
Chyrie crouched down low and attempted to swipe Xiran's leg from beneath him, but he was faster. With the brutal efficiency of a rider, he twisted, planting his boot between her knees to kill her momentum and catching the back of her head.
His foot hooked between them and locked around her calf, pinning Chyrie down and positioning himself so neither fell into the anvil—or worse the forge.
Pivoting swiftly to the left, Xiran pressed the flat base of his ax against her throat.
Off-balance, Chyrie's body trembled beneath his grasp, feeling the fingers of his free hand now locked around her wrist.
"We are doing this because I've spent my life training men like Anryth," Xiran whispered into her ear. His lips brushed against the soft shell of skin, sending shivers down her spine. "Militia men, who will not hold back or hesitate to strike you down."
The truth.
Chyrie was rendered breathless.
Her thoughts reeled from strategy to wordless clatter with no tracks to follow.
The thick walnut of his hilt barely pressed against her jugular. There was no threat, no promise in the pressure of Xiran's ax. Only a lesson.
Her family had never been so rough with her.
Chyrie couldn't remember a time where her father forced her to lose, only reinforcing technique while she and Cathan fought in the mud. Her brother trained her in hand-to-hand, but only what she might use in a throne room.
Now, her target was Anryth.
"You will need to train to survive. You can craft the perfect blade, but you must hone yourself to use it."
Releasing her, he rose again and waited.
Xiran pierced through her, identifying her weaknesses and cleaving into them.
She'd grown weak and unprepared.
"Again," Chyrie said, pressing onward.
If he was willing to teach her, she knew she'd better learn.
Xiran only paused to correct her hold on the sword she'd practiced with. His hand gripped her shoulder, where he prodded individual muscles and instructed what might better strengthen them in the meantime.
After a forced pause for water and fifteen minutes rest, Chyrie panted in the center of the clearing, sweat skimming down her arms and legs. The forge billowed to life behind them, everpresent.
Xiran had discarded his suede coat on a nearby rock, now only wearing an earthy brown undershirt with cropped sleeves, stained with soot and ash. He continued sparring with his rider's leather pants, which offered a shocking amount of give.
She'd managed to send him to the ground twice, though Chyrie lied to herself about the accident.
Her energy was waning now.
"You're improving,' Xiran mused.
If improvement included her arms and legs wobbling like spring gelatin, she wasn't sure she wanted it.
But she mustered a small smile despite the wretched burning of her muscles, begging her to stop.
"Thank you," Chyrie replied, teeth grinding. "Again."
He nodded.
Xiran met her in the heart of the clearing, sweat dripping from his brow. He managed his breathing well, barely gasping as opposed to Chyrie's deepened rasps for air.
The moon rose behind them, offering a welcomed chill.
Determined, she trusted her gut and threw herself into the fray one last time.