Chapter 52: Training Session

Without any hint of warning, Freya lunged low, faster than thought, faster than breath. I didn’t even have time to swear before she was under me, her body like a streak of molten gold.

Instinct screamed louder than reason—I vaulted, flipping clean over her, skirt flaring, hair catching in the candlelight like a cheap halo some saint had pawned off. I landed with all the grace of a drunken cat, spun on the ball of my foot, and lashed out with the dagger in my hand.

It would’ve been magnificent, a perfect strike, if only Freya hadn’t raised one hand behind her like she had eyes on her back, fingers snapping tight around my wrist.

Her leg came up like a hammer, slamming into my stomach so hard I briefly considered coughing up my sins along with my last meal.

I stumbled, wheezing, the dagger wobbling in my grip. Gods, she hit like a storm made of bricks. “Rude,” I gasped, doubling over as I tried not to collapse. “Do you always open conversations by trying to puncture someone’s lungs?”

“Only yours,” Freya replied, her voice steady as steel. She twisted my arm sharply, forcing the dagger from my grip, and I yelped as it clattered to the stone.

Atticus, the eternal scholar, didn’t even blink. From the sidelines he hummed thoughtfully, scribbling in his notebook like this was just another equation to balance. “Interesting. Her angle of attack demonstrates a highly effective application of leverage against a weaker opponent.”

“Excuse me?” I snapped, jerking backward. “Weaker opponent? I’ll have you know I’ve outlived at least fifteen clients who said the same thing.”

Before I could properly reclaim my pride, Freya lunged again. Her hand shot for the dagger, but this time I reached inward, focusing on the phantom beat hammering in my chest. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The rhythm quickened, my vision blurring into black mist until the world twisted inside-out.

The shadow realm seized me, its oily weight pressing against my lungs, but there it was—the dagger gleaming solid in the void, defying the mist.

My hand snatched it back easily, almost too easily, like plucking a coin from a child. I reappeared behind her with a smirk plastered on my lips, dagger spinning in my palm.

Freya didn’t turn immediately. She stilled, her body rigid. And then, just as I shifted to strike, she whipped around, her blade-less hand slamming into mine, knocking the dagger free once again. “You think I can’t feel where you move?” she hissed. “I can hear that shift in the air. Just like the time we fought Malrick.”

“Saints above, do you practice this in front of a mirror?” I wheezed, ducking another strike. “Or are you just naturally insufferable?”

Atticus’s voice cut in, maddeningly calm. “Loona, perhaps if you altered your timing, slipping back through touching the mist by force, you might—”

“Not now, Atticus!” I shouted, barely ducking under Freya’s elbow. “Some of us are trying not to die!”

The fight became a blur of motion—dagger clashing between us, passing from her to me to her again, always stolen back with ease in the mist but never landing true.

My lungs screamed. My body burned. And gods, the phantom beat—it wasn’t just tiring, it was draining, each activation tugging at my mind like a greedy child wanting more attention.

It took everything just to hold focus long enough to slip, and by the time I reappeared, Freya already had her next move lined up, reading the shift of air like the smug predator she was.

“You’re slowing,” she muttered after driving me back into the wall with another kick. “Even with your trick.”

“I’m pacing myself!” I lied, wheezing. “Pacing is very important. Like… in bed.”

She rolled her eyes, though I swore the corner of her lip twitched. I tried to grin, but then her fist cracked against my cheek and any thoughts of flirting went right out of my skull.

Atticus adjusted his glasses, frowning. “You need to be unpredictable. Disruption is the only way to beat someone who has already decoded your rhythm.”

“Oh yes, thank you, professor,” I snapped, as another strike came whistling past my cheek. “Shall I juggle while I’m at it? Or maybe recite some poetry?”

“If it helps,” he said seriously.

I hated him. I hated both of them. And I hated how much I was enjoying myself.

And then the spark hit me—the kind of terrible, wonderful idea that either wins you glory or gets you killed so spectacularly they’ll name a tavern drink after you. My fingers loosened. The dagger left my hand, tumbling end over end into the air above us, catching the candlelight in glittering arcs.

Freya’s eyes followed it instantly, predator-sharp, her body lunging forward in a flash of instinct that could’ve put a hunting cat to shame.

She reached, fingers spread wide, but by then I was already gone—the phantom beat hammering in my chest as I slipped under the world, into the black mist.

In that strange half-realm, the dagger hovered. I spun, a smirk already crawling across my face as I snatched it back into my palm. Freya’s hands clawed uselessly through the empty air of the waking world, catching nothing but the echo of where it should have been.

Sliding around behind her, I shifted position with gleeful precision. She felt it—of course she did—the stir of air, the displacement of my body gliding around hers.

She whipped to meet me, golden hair snapping with the motion, but the lunge she’d committed to had already thrown her off balance, her weight just a fraction too far forward.

That was my chance. I snapped back into reality, knees weak, vision sparking, but triumphant all the same. The dagger’s edge was already there, hovering at the soft line of her neck, close enough that the cold kiss of steel brushed her skin.

Freya froze. Her eyes locked with mine, sharp and furious, her jaw tight. For a long moment, silence coiled between us, hot and tense as a bowstring. And then, slowly, with a scowl deep enough to crack stone, she spat the words like venom.

“…Damn it. You win.”

I grinned, bowing with exaggerated flourish. “Why thank you, my lady. You make defeat look positively radiant.”

Behind us, Atticus clapped his hands together, actually smiling for once. “Excellent! What a remarkable display of wit and application. A most resourceful adaptation!”

“Resourceful?” I scoffed, twirling the dagger between my fingers.”That was genius, darling. Call it what it is.”

We went again, and again, the hours bleeding together in a haze of sweat and shadow. I began to notice it then—a shift. The phantom beat quickened with my own heartbeat, rising as my body worked harder, allowing me to slip faster, smoother.

Sometimes, for the briefest of seconds, I lingered longer in the mist, enough to maneuver before the realm spat me back. Each slip became less about timing and more about rhythm, like dancing with my own pulse. It was intoxicating. Maddening. And utterly exhausting.

Freya, of course, was tireless. Her body never slowed, her strikes always sharp. Even with Brutus’s strength still simmering in my veins, I faltered first. My knees buckled, my vision blurred, and she slammed me against the wall with a grunt of triumph.

Both of us were drenched, sweat dripping down our temples, chests heaving, lungs dragging in air like drowning creatures. Freya pinned my wrist to the wall, her other hand braced beside my head, her breath hot on my cheek. For a moment, the chamber was silent save for our panting.

And then I did the only logical thing: I sniffed her.

“Mm,” I murmured with a crooked smile. “Sweat and steel. Not bad. A little musky, but… oddly charming.”

Her eyes narrowed. She lifted one arm, sniffed her own armpit, and grunted. “Fuck, I need a shower.”

I blinked. “Wait—this place has a shower?”

She nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Atticus and I found it during the sweep. It still works.”

“You’re telling me I’ve been stewing in my own filth this whole time when there’s an actual shower within reach?” My jaw dropped. “Saints above, that’s cruelty. That’s torture!”

From behind us, Atticus spoke without looking up from his notes. “Right then, I’ll leave you to it. I need to organize my findings.”

Freya and I both turned toward him in unison. My lips curled into a wicked grin. Her eyes rolled with the force of a gale.

Atticus blinked at us, confused. “What?”

Before he could take another step, I bounded forward, seized him by the wrist, and tugged him back toward us with a devilish laugh.

“Oh no, professor,” I purred, dragging him closer. “You don’t get to escape this little lesson quite yet.”

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