And fly to the skies from your land
My fist never lands. He catches it mid-swing, and before I can register what’s happening, the world tilts and I’m flat on my back, wrists pinned into the snow.
The cold bites through my sleeves, sharp enough to make me draw a quick breath. His grip is solid, certain, and the way his shadow cuts across my vision makes the space between us feel smaller than it is. My eyes stay locked on his—steady, dark, and difficult to read—and my pulse is quick, though not just from the fight.
I smirk at his story, breath curling white between us. “Sounds like you’re every bartender’s dream customer,” I say dryly, but there's admiration glinting in my eye; he's willing to fight for strangers in need. I curl my fingers a little. “Until you owe them a door.”
His hands tighten fractionally on my wrists, and something in me stirs, sharp as the cold and just as bracing. I don’t linger on it—but the question what now, teacher? is too much to ignore.
”Pay attention, student,” I croon back at his graveled voice.
I shift my hips hard to one side, drawing my knees up as I twist my wrists outward toward his thumbs—the weakest point in his grip. The movement gives me just enough space to roll my shoulders and slip one hand free. In the same breath, I plant that freed palm against his chest and push off, bucking my hips to break his balance.
If it works, I’m out from under him and already circling, light on my feet, and I dart in again the moment he adjusts with a quick jab at his ribs. The cold air feels sharper now, the space between us charged and restless.
The land that you love and all that you are
