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He shook his head, the ram’s horns catching the late-morning sunlight that filtered through the dense canopy. “I think it’s probably more complicated than either of us realize.” He paused his walking and turned to me. “Keep balancing.”

I rolled my eyes but obliged. “And when am I actually going to get to swing this sword?”

Miles suddenly whipped around, unsheathing his sword quicker than lightning. But before he could knock my blade from my hand, I had my own hilt in my grip and my sword in front of my face. He froze, his head cocked in surprise at my speed, blades fixed in front of us. I was surprised at myself too, but I didn’t let it show.

“Okay, Holy One. Not bad.” He relaxed, looking me up and down. “Let me show you a basic swing.”

We fell into a routine — balance, fight, balance, fight. I wasn’t able to balance the blade for too long, but I was quicker on my feet than I’d thought I’d be, and much less clumsy. Maybe it was a Saints-given thing. I took satisfaction every time I blocked a swing, enough that the blows Miles landed stung a little less than they would have otherwise.

But with every swing, every dodge and every turn, it felt as if the teeth of a driva gnawed at the back of my mind, begging the question — what the hell was the Saint of Pain doing here?

? ? ?

I finished up the last of the small chunk of dried rabbit that Helmina sent along with us. The mid-afternoon sun was blinding where it filtered through the trees. I wiped my hands on my trousers, standing to face Miles. “I’m ready.”

He nodded, swiftly packing up the rest of our food and taking a position across from me. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Miles lunged, his sword meeting mine with a metallic peal that bounced off the trees. He had bone-crushing strength, but I had speed, so much so that I easily took a step back and parried as his sword sailed through the air. I was set to dodge it until my foot caught in a small divot and I had to flail to keep myself upright.

“Good,” he said quietly from under his mask. “Remember, balance.”

Without so much as a nod I moved to strike, catching him off-guard and sending him stumbling backward.

“Remember,” I taunted, “balance.”

I swore steam billowed from the ram’s nostrils as he righted himself, his head nodding as he chuckled. “Alright,” he muttered, “let’s go.”

And the dance began. This was different from our past practice; before, we’d kept moving, kept walking, but now we stayed in the clearing, circling each other like two predators. I knew he was letting me land the few blows I did, but I let myself get lost in the rhythm of clanking swords and heaving breaths. Every swing of my blade bolstered me, reminded me that I might have a fighting chance outside my divine powers.

Miles’ movements were much more fluid than mine, a type of grace I could tell had come from years of practice and training. Each step was measured, each dodge was an intentional reaction practiced hundreds of times over. And though my slim blade was laughably smaller than Miles’, I was impressed at my ability to counteract his strength.

Our swords ground together and we both stepped back, surveying each other, daring the other to make a move. “Impressed?” I asked, out of breath but antagonistic.

“Don’t get cocky,” he warned, his low, raspy voice taking on an edge of authority.

“But are you impressed?” I prodded.

“Not yet.”

His movements were quicker than I could follow, and in three razor-sharp steps he’d struck the blade from my grip and backed me against a tree, his broad palm wrapped around my throat, pinning me in place.

All I could do was stare at him in shock, his thumb and fingers on the sides of my neck with just enough pressure to make my vision go spotty. He smelled like oakmoss and the forest just after it rained, and I was frozen in shock at the position he’d manage to trap me in. His chest heaved, mere inches from my own with every breath, my heart pounding so hard I knew he could feel it in my throat, beating against his hand. My jaw flexed as he stared at me from behind his mask.

“Fight me,” he breathed.

I struggled to get a word out as an air of panic set in. This man was a trained soldier, a weapon in his own right, and every moment spent within his grip reminded me of that.

“Try to get away,” he panted, and his voice had changed. There was the familiar authority of a lieutenant commanding his soldier, but somewhere behind it was the sour taste of worry, of desperation. “Fight me, Petra. Show me that you can protect yourself.”

I was frozen. I should be fighting him, but all I could do was stare back and forth between the tiny slits in his mask, searching through the darkness for a glimpse of the human eyes it hid, desperate to know who he was. I told myself to summon my flames, to fight him, told myself to obey him just this once, but I couldn’t. The familiar feeling flooded through me again. Why did Miles make me feel this sort of push and pull?

He leaned in, the ram’s forehead pressing against mine. “You know you’ve wanted to kill me since our trip through the Onyx Pass. You shy away at my touch. You’re disgusted by me. So go ahead, Petra. What’s stopping you?”

My hands flew to where he held me, clawing uselessly at his wrist. I thrust my knee forward but he blocked it with his own, easily holding my legs to the tree trunk, the impact causing me to wince in pain. I threw my body from side to side, harnessing every bit of physical might I had, but his hold on me didn’t so much as budge. He had me in an iron grip, and my only way out would be to tap into my well of power.

As if he knew what I was thinking, he nodded. “Do it. Find your fire,” he snarled through gritted teeth as I fought. “Dammit, Petra, show me you can do it!” He was pleading, begging, his voice pained. I summoned that fury, let my blood run hot until it boiled, let the light expand within my chest–