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My sweep doesn’t oppose his stance but complements it, creating a circular force that flows rather than strikes.

“That’s three times you’ve dropped your guard,” Orion says, catching my wrist.

I huff and push damp strands out of my face. “Maybe you’re distracting.”

“Maybe?” he echoes, stepping closer, his grip sliding down to my hand.

I raise my staff between us. “Don’t make me prove I’m still dangerous.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmurs, eyes glinting with that infuriating mix of amusement and something darker. “But I do enjoy watching you try.”

I jab forward and miss by a hair. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Next time, don’t hesitate.”

“Next time, don’t smirk at me like you know exactly what I’m thinking.”

“I do know what you’re thinking.” His voice drops to a rumble. “And I’m thinking the same thing.”

“Noted,” he says. “But no promises, fragile human.”

“Not fragile,” I reply, landing a strike that makes him grunt in surprise and pleasure to course through me. “Just different.”

“Different,” he repeats, with a smile that makes his eyes flash gold. “I like different.”

He moves closer than necessary for our next exchange, his body heat radiating against mine like standing near a bonfire.

“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 movements clearly 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.

“Excellent demonstration,” he announces to the class, his voice steady despite the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “Professor Morgan has proven her point about adaptive techniques. Sometimes the oldest traditions can be countered by unexpected approaches.”

His eyes find mine again, holding them a beat too long.

“Or remembered by those who’ve forgotten they knew them in the first place.”

The students shift from foot to foot, exchanging glances with raised eyebrows and widened eyes. Some lean together, whispering urgently behind cupped hands. Others stare openly, reassessing everything they’d assumed about human capabilities.

A young Unseelie student with midnight-blue hair leans forward. “Professor Wildfire, the spiral counter sequence—that’s from the ancient texts, isn’t it? The ones locked in the forbidden archives?”

“Observant, Kellen,” Orion replies with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Though perhaps we should focus on the practical applications rather than historical origins.”

His deflection isn’t subtle. More confirmation that something is very wrong with what my body knows.

“I appreciate this, Professor Wildfire,” I say evenly. “An educational exchange.”

His eyes meet mine with unmistakable meaning. “More educational than expected.” His voice drops to a murmur meant only for me. “We should talk later. About where you learned those forms.”

His fingertips brush mine as he retrieves his belongings, the brief contact sending another wave of heat up my arm that settles in my chest like mulled wine, warming me from the inside out.

“Though perhaps...” he leans closer, his breath hot against my neck, “we could discuss it over dinner instead of in some stuffy classroom. I’d love to see what other... skills you’re hiding.”

Luckily just as I’m about to open my mouth to tell him no the bell rings ending class and a few rush toward Orion, their voices excited and high pitched.

Other students file out while casting curious glances my way.

The Unseelie boy who had pantomimed throat-cutting now gives me a respectful nod.

A Seelie girl watches with undisguised fascination.

Many who entered with dismissive attitudes now keep their distance, bodies angled slightly away as they pass.

“Did you see how she countered the Thornblade strike?” I hear one student whisper to another as they exit. “No human should even recognize that form, let alone counter it perfectly.”

“And her eyes—did you notice how they changed during the second sequence? Just for a moment they looked almost like...”

“Shut up,” hisses her companion. “You know we’re not supposed to talk about that.”

Talk about what? My hands clench involuntarily, a cold dread settling in my stomach like lead. What did they see that I couldn’t?

Finnian approaches as the room empties, the scent of old books and herbs surrounding him like an aura. “Impressive demonstration,” he says, genuine admiration in his voice. “You handled Professor Wildfire’s challenge admirably.”

“He’s an exceptional fighter,” I respond carefully, watching Finnian’s face for clues. His eyes—those gold-flecked amber depths—study me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

“One of our best,” Finnian agrees. “Though I’ve never seen him quite so... matched before.” He adjusts his robes, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. “Your countermeasures were particularly fascinating. I’d be interested to learn more about the military tradition that developed them.”

Before I can formulate a suitably vague response, Orion joins us, clapping Finnian on the shoulder with casual familiarity that nearly knocks the smaller man off-balance.

“Your human instructor is remarkable, Finn,” he says, studying me with open curiosity, his earlier warmth now tempered with thoughtful assessment. “Where exactly did you say you trained, Professor Morgan?”

“Special operations,” I reply with deliberate vagueness. “Various classified programs.”

“Must have been very special indeed,” Orion muses, closing the distance between us again.

His finger traces a line just above my sleeve where the thorn patterns hide beneath fabric. Never touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat emanating from his skin.

“I’d love to hear more about them. Perhaps over dinner? I know an excellent place in the eastern gardens.” His eyes hold mine with unmistakable heat. “Unless you’re afraid to be alone with me.”

Wait... My mind catches up. He just asked me out. My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Or out of her depth.