Page 60 of The Devil May Care

“Humor is not a defense, Kay.”

“It’s all I’ve got, Caz.”

He pauses. Then steps away and I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for days. We begin. One movement at a time. Feet. Balance. Hips. Eyes. Blade. It’s slow. Awkward. I mess up at least six things for every one I get right. But he never snaps. Never mocks. He just watches, corrects, adjusts, and every time he speaks I feel something settle inside me. Something that hasn’t been still in a very, very long time.

I lose count after the eleventh repetition. Or the fifteenth. Or maybe the moment my thighs start trembling like overcooked noodles and my shoulder goes numb from holding the blade too tight.

“Again,” Caziel says.

I repeat the swing of the blade. Or at least something like it. Foot forward. Twist at the hips. Keep the dagger close. Don’t trip over your own boot. I’ve never done so many things wrong so many times in a row. Which, for me, is saying something. Caziel barely speaks now. He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t bark orders. He just watches, eyes following every movement—calm, focused, clinical. Like he’s measuring the angles of my failure for future analysis. Or maybe for my eulogy.

I swing too wide, and the dagger jerks as if pulling me back into position. He steps forward—fast—but doesn’t touch me. Not yet.

“Again.”

My breathing’s ragged now. Sweat slides down the back of my neck. My braid sticks to my spine like a whip that missed its mark. I’m hot, sore, dizzy, but I don’t stop. I’m not sure if it’s pride or spite pushing me forward. Probably both.

“Drop your weight,” he says, circling me again. “You’re lunging, not striking.”

“Oh,” I pant, “you mean my desperate… flailing doesn’t count… as… technique? That’s not…” I suck in air, “what you told…me… the other day.”

He says nothing, but I think his mouth twitches again. His skin seems to shimmer in the light of flame. Bending and refracting in ways that confuse my brain. When I blink again he’s back to normal. Maybe I should take a minute. Slow my heart rate.

I shift again. Feet flat. Arms bent. I try to focus on form instead of the unbearable heat or the way his voice slides into my spine like cold water. Then, finally, he moves closer. Close enough to smell like ash and something clean beneath it. His hand comes to my wrist. Light. Intentional. Warm. He adjusts the blade in my grip. Then his other hand settles against my hip, shifting me slightly to one side.

“Too forward,” he murmurs. “You’ll collapse if someone counters.”

“Noted,” I breathe.

I’m very aware of his fingers. How big his hand is. How warm. I should move. He should step back. Neither of us does. He lifts his hand, then ghosts it down the curve of my arm again, no contact this time—just the brush of air and instruction.

“You’re leaning,” he says. “Let the blade move through your center, not ahead of it.”

“And if I haven’t found my center?”

“Then this is where you learn.”

He steps away and I almost stumble from the absence of him.

“Again,” he says. So I do. I move through the sequence: shift, twist, recover. No one claps. No magic flares. But I stay on my feet. My balance is better. My swing is tighter. I don’t feel strong. But I feel alive.

I realize something as I breathe through the movement. His touch wasn’t one of ownership. It wasn’t meant to make me submit or break me down. Every correction has been for function, not control.That shouldn’t be remarkable. But it is. I step back into my stance and meet his eyes. Caziel doesn’t nod, doesn’t smile, but he’s watching. Still watching. And for the first time all day, I don’t feel like I’m failing.

He calls the next form, and I move. One foot forward. Elbow tight. Blade arcing across an invisible opponent’s ribs. I don’t overstep. I don’t lose my balance. For the first time today, I land it and I know it. I can feel it in my body, in the clean efficiency of the motion, the satisfying way the weight of the dagger follows through like an extension of my arm instead of some foreign object I borrowed from a museum exhibit.

I stop at the end of the sequence, chest heaving, sweat dripping from my hairline, and glance at Caziel out of the corner of my eye. He’s still as ever. Arms crossed. Watching. The silence stretches just long enough to make me wonder if I imagined the whole thing.

“Better.”

That’s it. Just one word. Flat, neutral, probably the lowest setting on his compliment dial, but something in me lights up. I almost laugh. Instead, I grin. Huge. Unfiltered. It surprises even me—how much it means, how good it feels to hear from him of all people that I haven’t already failed. That I’m doing something… maybe not well, but okay.

“Better,” I repeat, turning the word over like a shiny coin. I don’t need him to clap or fist-bump or offer a gold star. I just needed to know I’m not hopeless. That I’m not drowning in a sea of ancient magic and immortal expectations and fake weapons I don’t understand.

I’m still not strong or graceful, but I’m learning.

And apparently? He sees it.

Caziel doesn’t react to my smile. But I notice the faintest shift in his shoulders. The way his gaze lingers half a second longer than necessary before he turns.