Page 28

Dahlia

Thea returned like a storm front, kicking open the door with one boot and dragging a massive trunk behind her.

Her eyes scanned the room with immediate suspicion, especially when she spotted Silas, very much unbound and leaning against the fireplace with the smuggest look I'd ever seen on a man who once spent the night tied to a kitchen chair.

"Hope no one developed a conscience while I was gone," she said flatly, dropping the trunk with a heavy thud.

Silas straightened, arms spread like he was welcoming a long-lost friend. "Miss me, sunshine?"

Thea didn’t answer. She just reached into her jacket, pulled out a throwing knife, and flicked her wrist.

The blade buried itself in the wall two inches from his head.

Silas blinked. Smiled. "Still got it."

"You're still on my list," Thea replied, brushing past him like he was part of the furniture.

Henry let out a long-suffering sigh and muttered, "It's always the ones who fight the most that end up sharing bunk space." He didn’t sound surprised. Just tired.

I hovered by the trunk, curiosity piqued. "What is all this?"

"Training gear," Thea said simply. She opened the lid and began unpacking: weighted daggers, padded vests, smoke bombs, and a map that looked like it belonged in a dungeon crawl.

I stared. "Are we preparing for a battle or starting a weird medieval gym class?"

"Both," she replied. "You nearly got your face clawed off at the bookstore, and if you think that’s the last monster we’ll see, you’re delusional. This? This is insurance."

Kieran joined me by the trunk, brushing his fingers briefly along my back. The contact grounded me.

"We'll go slow," he said. "Start with the basics."

Silas crossed his arms. "Slow won’t be good enough. Calliope doesn’t take days off."

"Still talking," Thea muttered, pulling out what looked like a set of well-used brass knuckles.

"Flirtation noted," Silas replied.

She glared at him like she could set him on fire.

Henry and Thea took me outside to the field behind the cottage. It wasn’t much, but the open space gave us room to move. Thea didn’t go easy. Footwork drills, evasive rolls, knife technique. Henry shouted corrections from the sidelines while sipping coffee like he was watching Sunday football.

And I was terrible at it.

I tripped. I fell. I dropped the knife. Twice.

By the time we finished the second round of footwork drills, my shirt was clinging to my back with sweat, and my legs burned.

My arms trembled every time I lifted the dagger.

But I didn’t quit. Even when I hit the ground hard and Thea offered me a hand up with that knowing look, I took it. And I got back up.

Inside, Kieran worked with me on magic. His voice was calm, instructions clear, but his eyes never left me.

"Focus on the flame," he said, guiding my hand over a candle. "Don’t control it. Invite it."

The flame bent, flickered, then swelled. I gasped.

"Good. Again."

Sometimes the flame barely moved. Sometimes I couldn’t feel the magic at all. But I kept trying.

Hours passed like that—drills, bruises, short breaks, small wins. When the sun began to dip lower, I collapsed onto the back porch, gulping water and letting my lungs catch up.

Kieran followed, settling beside me with a slow exhale. We sat in silence for a moment, the kind that said more than words.

"Kieran," I said finally. "I don't think I can do this."

He turned toward me, brow furrowed. "You're wrong."

I gave a weak laugh. "You didn’t even hesitate."

"Because I’ve seen what you’re capable of. You will get it."

"Even if you thought I wouldn't get it, you’d lie, wouldn’t you?"

He touched my chin, gently turning my face to his. "No. But I’d never stop trying to make it true."

His kiss was soft. Brief. Just enough to promise more.

Behind us, Thea shouted from the treeline, "Less kissing, more practicing!"

I groaned and stood, flashing Kieran a wry grin. "Back to it?"

"Back to it," he said, and I felt his gaze follow me all the way across the yard.