He moved like a question I'd been warned never to answer.
We were training at dusk, the clearing slick with thawed snow that'd frozen over again in spots. I'd been working on the low step Ronan drilled into me—hips leading, weight balanced right—when he appeared behind me and tapped my shoulder. Not soft, more like a statement. The circle of practice tightened as Lyra and Selvara stepped back, giving us space.
"Again," he said.
I turned, breath puffing white in the cold air. He carried the weight of the evening—successful hunt, sharp winter scents, and that impatience that never needed words. We launched into the drill: strike, parry, pivot. Muscle memory from brutal weeks of practice. Cold bit my face, but my body moved, even with this new life shifting my center.
