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Behind him, the door to the boxing ring opened.

Rhys stepped inside the room, his regular bag thrown over his shoulder. “You’re early,” he commented nonchalantly as he passed him by, lowering his bag onto a chair and retrieving his things.

“You’re late.”

“No humor in you today?”

Michael glared. “Get your gloves on.”

As he pulled on his protective padding, Rhys straightened up, moving to stand in front of his friend. Rhys had one brow raised quizzically as his eyes looked all over him, the frown growing with each passing second.

“What’s the matter with you?” Rhys asked. “You hardly look like yourself at all.”

Michael pressed his lips together. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“That’s it?”

He rolled his eyes, turning around to step into the ring. “Don’t push me, Rhys,” he called out over his shoulder, “And you might find me to not be the best sparring partner.”

Following behind him, Rhys kept the look of concern on his face. “Did you forget thatyouinvitedme,Michael?”

“Of course not.”

Rhys shook his head and chuckled humorlessly. “Not that you aren’t regularly a grouch,” he muttered, “But what happened? Your anger is… It’s practically tangible.”

Michael raised his fists instead. “You seem to think I asked you here to talk.”

“Didn’t you?”

“What does it look like, Rhys?”

Leaning against the ring’s ropes, Rhys shook his head again. “I can’t box with someone who can hardly stand on their own two feet.”

Michael frowned. He didn’t think he lookedthatbad, but once he swiveled his head towards one of the mirrors along the wall across from him, he slowly realized what Rhys referred to. There was an echoing dark shadow beneath his eyes, his hair disheveled and entirely unlike himself. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, allowing the short hair to grow along his jawline and chin. He looked gaunt and hollow.

“You can take it back, you know.”

Michael met his friend’s gaze. “What?”

“Whatever you did to Cordelia.” Rhys stepped closer to him. “Your reason for leaving. You can take it back, and return to Solshire.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Look,” Rhys started, sounding rather exasperated, “I think you -”

Michael let out a frustrated grunt and shoved his friend backwards a few steps. “I am in no mood for talking.”

Rhys glared at him. “I won’t fight a man who can hardly stand,” he snarled again.

“Look at me standing, Rhys!” Michael held his arms out. “I wouldn’t have insisted on sparring if I did not believe I could do it.”

Rhys watched him suspiciously for a few moments before letting out a heavy sigh, and raising his fists to his face. Relief flooded through Michael as his friend stepped closer, the determination clear in his eyes. Their fight began rather timidly at first, with Rhys holding back. Michael didn’t realize how little energy he had within him when he failed to dodge the third and fourth punch, hardly able to sustain himself as Rhys’s knuckles made contact with his ribs, then his right side.

By the fifth hit, Michael stumbled backwards, his vision growing foggy and blurred for longer than he expected. He shook his head a few times, desperate to regain himself but still unable to regain his balance. Michael fell against the ropes around the ring, leaning heavily against them.

“It’s no fun winning when you can’t fight back,” Rhys grumbled.

“Who said you won?”