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We circle each other. My legs burn from the effort of dodging, but I can’t stop now. I don’t want to stop. The heat in my veins isn’t just exertion——it’s the ghost of Roan’s body beneath mine, her eyes dark, mouth parted, like I’d knocked the wind from her lungs and something else right along with it.

Part of me wants to see if I can pin her again.

She lunges, sword angled toward my side. I feint right, but she anticipates it, stepping in close, too close.

Our bodies collide.

The dagger slips from my fingers. Her arm snaps around my waist with instinctual force, dragging me flush against her. My breath catches mid-gasp. The world contracts to the point of contact: her chest against mine, her palm splayed low on my hip, the whisper of her breath brushing my cheek.

“Dead again,” she murmurs, voice pitched low.

I don’t know if she means me or her.

We stay there—locked in place. A heartbeat. Maybe two. My pulse stutters, tangled up in hers. She’s warm and solid andtooclose, and every nerve in my body lights up like a fuse.

“Roan,” I whisper.

Her name tastes like a question.

She lets go of me like she’s been scorched. The heat of her hand still lingers at my waist. Her jaw tightens, eyes unreadable, all the teasing gone from her face like it was a mask she just peeled off.

“That’s enough for today,” she says briskly. “You did well.”

“Roan—”

But she’s already moving, stooping to retrieve her sword. When she straightens, she doesn’t look at me.

“Let’s cool off. It’s almost dusk.”

She turns, walking toward the stream with sure, quick strides like the trees might swallow her whole if she doesn’t keep moving.

I watch her go, heart pounding in the hollow of my throat. Her words saydistance—measured and polite. But her shoulders are stiff, her grip tight around the hilt of her blade.

She’s not cooling off.

She’s running.

And gods help me… I want to chase her.

***

Later that night, the fire crackles between us, its orange glow licking at the damp night air. The scent of burning pine mingles with the loamy tang of the forest floor.

Across the fire, Roan sits with her legs stretched out, back against a fallen stone pillar. Her knife glints as she runs it along the whetstone, the scrape breaking the fragile quiet. Her eyes stay locked on the steel.

She’s been like this for the last hour—silent, coiled like a bowstring. The tension in her jaw, the furrow between her brows...it’s different tonight. Not the wary alertness she always carries, but something deeper. Heavier.

“You always do that when you can’t sleep?” I ask softly.

The blade pauses mid-stroke. Roan’s mouth twitches into something like a smile. “What?”

“Sharpen your weapons.”

“It’s just a habit.” She shrugs, dragging the knife across the stone again. The sound feels louder now, too sharp in the thick stillness.

I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders. “Something you learned, or something you can’t let go of?”

The question hangs in the air. The knife slows, then stops. Roan stares at the blade for a long moment, then exhales through her nose.