[Training] take it outside

Theea

Believe in your destiny's hand
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.

[ training ¾ ]

The land that you roam in times gone and far
The land that you love and all that you are

DAMIEN

I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak

Her fingers curling at his wrists send a brief thrill of challenge through him, the sharp cold of the night mingling with the spark between them, raw and unyielding. He catches her movement as she shifts, just in time to feel the subtle shift in pressure that loosens his grip.

When she slips free and plants a palm against his chest, pushing with a practiced force, Damien stumbles back slightly but recovers with a grunt, eyes locked on her every move. The taste of winter air fills his lungs, clean, biting, and electric.

The space between them tightens, tension humming like a taut wire. "Don't worry, I'm paying attention," Damien grins - yes, grins, his eyes narrowing with a flicker of respect as she circles like a shadow on the snow. 

He lets her build up her attack, he doesn’t flinch right away. Instead, he shifts his weight, feet firm in the packed snow, grounding himself.

From the outside, Damien looks as if he's going to absorb the hit.

But it's just a feint, meant to draw her focus. A hunter readying a trap. Her fist will find nothing but air as he twists his body sharply, spinning around on her with as much speed and precision as he can muster. As he turns, he throws out a controlled elbow toward her ribs—precise and firm enough to make its point without causing real harm. "Are you?"

(Training 4/4)

And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek

Theea

Believe in your destiny's hand
And fly to the skies from your land

Damien grins—really grins—with a glint of approval in his eyes, and it nearly stops me cold.

It throws me off just enough to steal the rhythm from my lungs. Even two years ago, I can remember how rare it was for him to so much as crack a smirk, and now here it is—full, unguarded, and aimed right at me. I realize too late that I’ve been staring instead of reading him, and by the time I catch it, he’s already moving.

My strike cuts through empty air. He’s fast—faster than I expected for all that bulk—and before I can reset, his elbow catches my ribs. Not too hard, but enough to make me grunt, a sharp “oof” slipping past my teeth as the breath leaves me.

My lips twitch into a smirk even as I suck in air. “To you?” I quip, voice edged with the breathless rasp his hit left me.

Before the words are fully out, I shift, catching his momentum in the turn and using it against him—hooking my leg in just the right place to try and trip him, not so different from his move. I keep my balance low and tight, leaning into the motion.

“Definitely,” I add with a grin of my own.

[ training 4/4 ]

The land that you roam in times gone and far
The land that you love and all that you are

DAMIEN

I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak

Theea’s trip sends Damien sprawling onto the packed snow, the sudden jolt knocking the breath from his lungs for a heartbeat. He lies there a moment, staring up at the stars blurred behind the faint glow of braziers, a crooked grin spreading over his face. His laughter cuts through the cold air, low and genuine—a sound rare enough that it catches even him by surprise.

“Damn,” he huffs, conceding defeat as he pushes himself up on one hand, brushing snow from his shirt. When his eyes meet hers, they sparkle with amusement and respect. "So lesson one is... you can kick my ass now?"

Damien’s breath still steadying, he lets his gaze linger on Theea—not the girl who once trailed behind him, but a woman sharpened by hard lessons and fierce resolve. She moves with a confidence that’s both familiar and new. It unsettles him, in the quiet way that truth does, because it means the roles have shifted and maybe she’s no longer someone he needs to watch over. 

He respects that. More than respect, there’s an unspoken acknowledgment: she’s her own force now, someone who could carve her own path through the wilds or the chaos of the world without asking for permission. And yet, beneath that steel, he senses the same spark—the stubborn streak, the hunger for independence—that once made her chase after him.

Damien lets himself imagine what she’s had to go through, the parts she’s kept hidden behind that teasing grin.

The night presses in, cold and deepening around them; a reminder that no matter how much fire sparks, time doesn’t stretch forever. He pushes himself up, collecting both of their belongings from the side of the 'ring'. He considers heading back for another drink, the familiar pull of warmth and numbness tempting him, but the weight of the night and his own quiet discipline stay his hand.

“Where are you staying?” He asks, voice low but easy, “I’ll walk you—make sure you don’t vanish into the night like some shadow. Though,” he offers her a warm half-smile, stepping closer, “maybe you should be walking me home instead.”

His eyes catch hers with a flicker of humor and something softer beneath it. The city’s glow flickers off the braziers nearby, but for a moment the cold feels less biting, softened by the quiet promise of company as they turn toward the dark streets.

And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek

Theea

Believe in your destiny's hand
And fly to the skies from your land

The thrill of it hits sharp and sweet when he sprawls into the snow, but it’s his laugh that catches me off guard.

It’s low and warm against the cold air, a sound I don’t remember well enough, and it steals my breath for a beat. Stoic, stone-faced Damien—smiling, laughing—and I’m the reason for it. My heart kicks harder, not just from the win but from the rare proof that I’d managed to crack something open in him. It feels like a small triumph, but there’s something deeper threaded through it, something I don’t want to examine too closely.

His “lesson one” makes my eyes sparkle. I plant my hands on my hips, tilting my chin at him. “That’s a point for me,” I say, a little breathless, “and yes, I’m keeping track.” There’s no mistaking the implication—this won’t be the last time we face off like this.

The air between us shifts, softer now, and we’re still looking at each other. His breath fogs the space between us, mingling with mine, and for a moment the sounds of the street fade. I catch myself wondering why his grin is rare enough to feel like a prize, why his laugh sounds like something pulled from deep water. I don’t know why he lets those things slip with me, but I like it—love it, even. And somewhere in the middle of that thought, I realize I’m not seeing him as a mentor anymore. The pull is different now. Not to follow him, but to stand beside him. Something in him rings true to me—maybe the hardship, maybe just the quiet resilience.

When he gathers both our belongings, I fall into step beside him, brushing the snow from my sleeves. “I’m pretty done with shadows until I need them,” I tell him, letting a small, certain smile tug at my lips. “The inn isn’t far.”

Then I tip my head, letting my tone turn lighter. “And don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe from thugs and thieves.”

His eyes catch mine again, and something in them softens the cold night. I hold his gaze just a beat longer than I should before following him back into the streets, the glow of the braziers flickering over his shoulders, the bite of the air somehow less sharp with him beside me.

fin

The land that you roam in times gone and far
The land that you love and all that you are