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MELANTHA SWUNG herstaff with as fierce a war cry as she could manage. Rharreth still blocked her swing easily, but he had to move more quickly than he had when they first started training.

The fire in her blood hummed, even as the painful tightness in her chest released. She let out another scream of battle fury and charged Rharreth, whipping her staff through the air as fast and hard as she possibly could.

Was this how Farrendel felt during his training every morning? If Melantha had known, she would have talked with him about it. Perhaps she would have even joined him for training.

Though, back in Tarenhiel, it would have been considered unseemly for a healer to train in fighting. Strange how Melantha had resented those social norms, even while she did her best to conform to them and even resented Farrendel when he did not—and never could because of his illegitimate birth.

Perhaps, instead of just resentment, she had really been jealous of Farrendel. In the end, he had figured out a way to defy all those who hated his birth, hated the way he did not fit into their society and managed to thrive anyway.

With a grunt of exertion, Rharreth blocked her swing, then changed his block into a swing of his own. Melantha moved to block, only to realize he had feinted high, then flicked the end of his staff low. He whacked her thigh, right on the spot that would have been bruised from their last training session, if Melantha had not healed herself.

She gritted her teeth and redoubled her efforts, side-stepping and bringing up her own staff. Ducking, she swung one end of her staff at Rharreth’s knees before twitching the top toward his head. He blocked both easily, but at least Melantha managed to parry his fast strike in return.

Rharreth hooked a foot around hers, but she sidestepped before he could trip her. Still, he got in close, inside her guard. He looped his staff over her, pinning her back against his chest.

She squirmed, but he had caught her. She could not even free her hands to try any of the hand-to-hand combat he had taught her. She stilled, growing aware of the muscles in his arms and chest and the way he was holding her. Tight, but still gentle for all they were training.

“Do you yield?” He spoke near her ear, his breath hot against the back of her neck yet somehow sending tingles down her spine.

Melantha had to swallow several times before she could whisper, “Yield.”

His grip on her loosened, but he did not let her go.

Melantha held her staff out of the way as she turned in his arms to face him. Held as she was against his chest, his face was only a few inches from hers. His gray skin beaded with a hint of sweat while his white hair was tousled. She probably looked a sight with sweat pouring down her face and her black hair wild about her head, yet his dark blue eyes focused on her with an intensity that she did not think came from the battle.

“You look...wild when you fight.” Rharreth’s voice rumbled beneath the hand Melantha had pressed to his chest. “You appear to love it.”

“Strange, I know, for a healer.” Melantha found herself leaning toward him. What was happening to her? For the past week, she and Rharreth had spent their days companionably enough.

But, it was here in the training arena where Melantha felt alive. She could be free, with all her passion thrumming through her chest and burning hot through her veins. She no longer had to hide behind a serene exterior.

It was also when they were here, that this crackling intensity between her and Rharreth was at its strongest, though she felt it at other times. When they climbed into bed and tried to ignore each other. When he handed her a report of the latest shipment from Escarland and their fingers brushed. When he asked for her opinion on how to best distribute that food shipment and truly listened to her response.

Rharreth leaned closer to her, a hand skimming up her arm. “I love that wildness.”

Melantha had thought she felt this way with Hatharal. Yet, something about what she had with Rharreth was deeper.

With Rharreth, Melantha was no longer hiding behind her people’s expectations of how she should act. She was free to be herself here. With him, she had blazed with fury, stormed with anger, pushed herself into fighting with abandon.

Only a few inches separated them now. Was Rharreth about to kiss her?

Somehow, that thought did not bring dread. Melantha held her breath. Somewhere, distantly, she heard her wooden staff thunk to the sandy floor as she dropped it to rest both hands on Rharreth’s chest.