And fly to the skies from your land
I smile a little at the bootknife comment—he’s clearly joking. Or maybe not. Maybe he means some enchanted blade that never dulls, never fails. But either way, I let it go… For now.
Because let’s be honest: I’m going to circle back to it eventually. I can’t not follow a thread like that.
But then he chuckles, low and brief, and it rolls through me like firelight in the middle of a snowstorm. Not enough to scorch—just enough to thaw. The way his mouth curves, just a little, pulls at something in my chest.
At the rap of his knuckles on the bar, I twist my lips in amusement. “Oh come on,” I murmur, lifting my brows. “Never been in a bar fight?”
Not that I’ve been in one, technically. But I’m skilled enough to get through one, damnit.
But when he says he can’t promise not to embarrass himself, I know what that means. That’s a yes. My spine straightens a little in my seat, excitement flaring quick and quiet in my chest. Even the small smile that follows feels like a win.
I down the last of my cocoa—still warm, still laced with something just strong enough to keep me glowing—then hop down from the stool with a thud of boots.
He’s taller than me, so I have to tilt my chin to meet his eyes, but I do it with a wink and a teasing grin.
“I’ll go easy on you,” I promise, sweet as anything.
I leave payment on the counter for my drink and nod toward the door, then lead him outside. The cold bites at once, but I barely feel it—not with the warmth still thrumming under my skin. Not with this kind of energy keeping my heart up. This is one the best ways I bonded with my parents, a way they bonded with each other, and I’m eager to have another sparring partner.
“I passed a good spot just before I got here,” I tell him as we walk. A couple buildings down, we duck into a side alley, and there it is: an open lot, packed snow underfoot, ringed by crates and scattered boxes like forgotten obstacles.
Perfect.
I drop my backpack by the edge and shrug out of my jacket, shaking out my arms. The air is sharp against my skin, but I’ve missed this. Movement. Motion. The kind of silence that only comes right before something fun.
I pivot, half-pirouette, and turn to face him with a crooked grin.
“Well, student,” I say, drawing the word out with clear delight, “no weapons. My daggers aren’t blunted, and I’d rather not cut you open first round.”
I slip into position without thinking—light on my feet, knees bent, hands ready. My stance is tight, deliberate, practiced. “Show me what we’re working with.”
The land that you love and all that you are
