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“I like you.”

Orion’s expression shifts from surprise to intense focus. His eyes brighten further, his hair actually flickering with increased intensity. He attacks again, this time with movementsclearly designed to test my strange knowledge—movements deliberately outside any documented human training.

His body spirals like a growing thorn, arms extending in patterns that paint glowing trails through the air. It’s a Wild Court technique that definitely wasn’t in my briefing materials—complex, ancient, and impossible for a human to know.

My response comes without conscious thought—my arms mirror his spirals, my feet trace counter-patterns across the glowing floor.

Where he extends, I contract.

Where he advances, I create space not by retreating but by altering the dynamic between us.

It’s like a dance I’ve practiced a thousand times, instinct guiding movements my mind cannot explain.

“There she is,” he murmurs, voice too low for others to hear, satisfaction coloring his tone. “The real you hiding under all that human training.”

A gasp ripples through the watching students.

“By the ancient roots,” a Wild Court student whispers loudly enough for others to hear. “That’s the Moonshadow counter-form. It hasn’t been seen since the royal line was lost. How does a human know movements that died with our queens?”

“Silence, Thorn!” another student hisses, but the damage is done.

Moonshadow?The name sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with physical exertion. It settles in my chest like a key turning in a long-forgotten lock.

The realization breaks my concentration. What am I doing? How am I doing it?

Orion’s eyes flash bright amber. In my moment of distraction, he attacks with renewed purpose—a low spinning sweep coupled with a simultaneous strike toward my shoulder.

I start to counter with the same instinctive style, but consciously redirect myself to human technique. The disruption costs me.

His sweep catches my ankle as I awkwardly shift between styles.

I roll with the fall, converting it into a backward somersault that puts space between us.

As I rise, I feel Kieran’s focused attention like a physical touch against my skin—cold fingers trailing down my spine, probing for weakness.

From the corner where Finnian stands, I sense a different kind of attention—assessment, and tinged with something that might be concern.

Orion presses forward, using his superior reach to keep me defensive. I block a straight punch with my forearm, wincing at the impact. Pivot away from a hook that would have taken my head off if it had connected. Duck under a high kick that splits the air where my face had been.

He has me backing toward the edge of the sparring circle now. I need to change the dynamic. When his next punch comes—a straight jab toward my solar plexus—I don’t block or dodge. I step into it, accepting glancing impact along my ribs to enter his guard. My shoulder drives into his chest, my hands lock around his waist, and I execute a perfect hip throw.

For a moment, he’s airborne, surprise evident on his face. But he’s too experienced to be caught completely off-guard.

He turns the fall into a roll, taking me with him. We hit the mat together, momentum carrying us through a full rotation before he pins me with a forearm across my collarbone, weight distributed to immobilize without crushing.

One. Two. Three.

His body presses against mine, the contact sending waves of heat through me that have nothing to do with exertion.

His scent surrounds me—earth and spice and something primal that makes my heart race for reasons completely unrelated to combat.

For a heartbeat, his eyes meet mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch, something passing between us that transcends the sparring match.

“Feel that?” he whispers, his mouth so close to my ear that his lips brush the shell of it. “That’s recognition. Your body knows what your mind doesn’t yet.”

What the hell?

He releases me and steps back with a respectful nod, offering a hand to help me up. When our palms touch, another jolt of electricity races up my arm, the thorn patterns beneath my sleeve responding with eager heat.