[Training] take it outside

Theea

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

It’s colder than I remembered.

Even with the coat I’m drowning in, the wind nips through the seams and pushes cold into my bones. The snow is beautiful in that quiet, smug way winter things are — it knows it’ll outlast me here. I tug the coat tighter, but my boots crunch forward through the edge of Snowcloak anyway. I’ve spent all day wandering, reacquainting myself with the layout, the shortcuts, the way the sun falls differently on Citadel stone than it does on jungle rock. I’m starting to remember how this place felt when it was home, and I haven’t even done anything to really earn my place yet.

Well. Aside from not freezing to death. That has to count for something.

I pass the old Palace path again and catch myself glancing around, wondering if I’ll spot Elizabeth’s office. I know she’s nearby — I’d feel better after saying hi — but I’ve been alone most of the day on purpose, and now I’m kind of committed to it. The sun’s sinking, everything’s turning gold and blue, and I realize I’ve officially reached “tropical dwelling girl can’t feel her fingers” levels of cold. I follow the light from a house-front and duck inside without thinking too hard.

The door shuts behind me, and heat wraps around me like an ambush.

I stop in the entryway for a second, blinking. I thought this was someone’s house turned pub. It’s… not. It’s dim, warm, glowing from a hearth the size of a lion, and it smells like stew and alcohol and old leather. The fire crackles in the back of the room, and I realize I’ve stepped into the coziest possible bar.

I shake snow off my sleeves and try to dust off my coat, but it’s hopeless. At least the rest of my clothes fit today — I don’t look like a vagrant in hand-me-downs like the last time I flew out here. My backpack shifts on my shoulders as I move toward the bar and slide into a stool.

The barkeep glances at me with a smile and raised brows. “What can I get you?”

He’s probably expecting something stronger, but I smile faintly and ask, “Hot cocoa?”

He nods, vanishes, reappears. The mug is warm in my hands within a minute. I blow across the top and take a cautious sip.

Oh. Oh.

I blink. There’s something definitely not-cocoa in here. Not that I’m mad. It’s good. It makes my chest feel warm, and my toes hurt a little less in my boots. I cradle the mug like it’s made of gold and slowly turn to glance around.

It’s a slow crowd tonight. Hunters, mostly, I think — I’m trying to learn how to spot them. And then my eyes catch on someone a few stools down.

He looks familiar. Older than me — handsome, sharp-jawed, long-haired — not in a way that makes me shy, but in a way that tugs at something in the back of my mind. I squint.

And then it hits me all at once.

“Damien!”

The word escapes before I can stop it. I leave my stool, mug in hand, and slide into the one beside him. I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face — I don’t run into people I know. Ever. Mostly because I barely know anyone, or at least I didn’t before moving to Torchline.

“Do you remember me?” I ask, and bite my lip. I doubt he does—I was twelve the last time I saw him, and my whole life has been defined by anonymity. I still have to try to keep my smile from swallowing my whole face. Try not to shake my leg under the bar from pure, stupid excitement.

He’s probably going to think I’m insane.

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

Damien’s head came up at the sound of his name, slow and deliberate, as though the extra second might help him place the voice. His gloved hand lingered on the rim of his mug, fingers curling loose as he turned.

For a beat, he only looked at her. Not blankly, but with the quiet scrutiny of someone trying to match the present to an old photograph: the sharper cut of her jaw now, the flush of cold in her cheeks, the restless brightness that hadn’t dimmed in her eyes. He sat broader than she’d remember, the kind of bulk a man earned partly from age and partly from swinging an axe all day, though the work-shirt he wore—rolled sleeves showing forearms marked by faint, half-healed nicks—wasn’t so much worn with pride as because it was what he had. There was a faint smudge of sawdust on his collar and the heavy boots of a man who’d walked straight out of the treeline.

There was something familiar in her eyes, though. Something bright and stubborn that tugged at a half-buried memory of a smaller figure trailing at his heels, peppering him with questions he hadn’t had the patience to answer.

“…Theea,” he said finally, the name careful, as though it had been sitting unused in the back of his throat for years. Setting the mug down, he leaned back a fraction to take her in from this closer distance. “You’ve changed.” His voice was quiet, rough at the edges from a day’s cold air and disuse. “Last time I saw you, you barely came up to my ribs. And you were hell-bent on figuring out how my snares worked without stepping in one.”

The words carried a dry edge of humor, though it didn’t quite reach a smile. His dark eyes flicked briefly to the mug in her hands before returning to her flushed, eager expression. “So,” he said after a moment, head tilting slightly, “what are you doing back in Halo? I didn’t think this place was easy to miss once you’d managed to get away from it.”

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 scent of pine and fresh-cut wood hit me before I even finish sitting down, the pine especially. It’s clean and sharp, like he just stepped out of the forest, and it lingers in the folds of his sleeves, tucked beneath his collar. It’s a smell I know well. It reminds me of cozy days in just one of many homes—of hunts in the snow, of cold mornings and crackling fires.

I let him take his time. My smile tempers into something more soft, waiting, not wanting to rush him. There’s something careful in the way he watches me—like he’s peeling back layers, trying to find the kid underneath. When he says my name, quiet and slow, excitement flutters in my chest.

“You do remember,” I nod warmly. I laugh a little under my breath, surprised by how good that feels. How rare that is, not to be recognized for who my mom is and instead just for me. Even if that version of me was really annoying. Yikes.

“For the record,” I say with a crooked grin, “I know how to make my own snares now. Haven’t stepped in one in ages.”

I lift the mug to my lips again, take a small sip—and still, the spiked edge in the cocoa catches me off guard. It burns just enough to help me brave the next part.

“A lot can change when you meet Frey and they help you skip five years.” I give a small wave like ta-da, a little sheepish. “I’m nineteen now.”

It still feels weird to say aloud.

“I live in Torchline these days,” I go on, “but I’ll be coming back and forth a lot more. I got invited to join the Monster Hunter’s guild—by the Resurrected Sword himself, after I fought some void-luxere with him.” After I followed him around the woods for so long that I couldn't be turned back when the fight started… not unlike following Damien around, once upon a time. I keep that particular stubborn consistency to myself. I tap my fingers against the side of the mug. “Figured I should get to know Halo better. If I’m gonna be trying to live up to expectations, I should know the terrain of homebase.”

The fire behind us snaps and shifts. I glance into it for a moment, letting the warmth settle in my bones before I speak again.

“Halo still has its charm.” My voice is softer now. “It’s quiet. Plus, the last of my best memories with my family were made here.” The words hang for a second too long. Grief nudges in around the edges—but I shake it off before it can get comfortable. I don’t need to tell him, I hope—we were living here in Halo when the war took dad. I sit up straighter and turn back to him with a crooked smile. “What about you? You gotten up to any trouble these last couple years?”

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

Damien huffed a soft breath—not quite a laugh, but close—as she lifted her mug and made that little ta-da gesture. Nineteen. He studied her again, this time not just for recognition, but with a kind of reluctant wonder. A few years ago, she’d been all elbows and oversized coats, boots untied, her questions never out of breath. Now she was sitting straight-backed in barlight, flushed from the cold and braver than he remembered, still talking like she had every right to be here. And maybe she did.

He let the silence hold for a moment before answering. “Frey, huh.” The name came easy, too easy to be unfamiliar. He turned his mug in his hands, not drinking, just moving it for something to do. “I’ve heard they can do that. Pull people forward. Change their shape. Make things grow where they shouldn’t. Or stop growing at all.” He spoke like someone recounting stories by firelight; half reverent, half skeptical, wholly aware he was on the outside looking in.

“They’ve always been close to the land. Nature’s teeth and tenderness, both. Makes sense they'd take interest in someone like you.” He said it without flattery. Just fact.

Then, quieter, almost to himself: “I’ve thought about seeking them out before. Just haven’t figured what I’d be asking for.”

He didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t look at her when he said it. Instead, he took a slow drink from his mug, as if the heat could ward off whatever uncomfortable truth had stirred in him. His fingers lingered near the rim, drumming once.

“Void-luxere,” he said, shifting the subject but not entirely leaving the weight behind. “Didn’t expect you to be chasing monsters.” A glance at her again—sharper, assessing not the girl he remembered but the woman she’d become. “But I guess you always had that... stubborn aim.”

When she spoke of Halo and her family, he didn’t interrupt. He just listened, still and solid beside her, letting the warmth of the fire fill in the places where words didn’t belong. He remembered the war in his own way; what it took from people, and what it left behind in them. He wouldn't try to name that for her.

“I’ve been keeping to the timberline,” he said finally. “Took a contract out near the icefields. Logging, hauling, the works..” He looked over, one brow lifted. “Monster hunting makes for a better story, though.” A flicker of dry amusement passed across his face, gone a moment later, but there if you knew to look. Then, more quietly: “You back for good? Or just until the gods tug you somewhere else?”

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 corners of my mouth curl as he speaks of Frey—not mockingly, not reverently either, but with a kind of grounded respect. He’s not wrong. Not about any of it.

“That’s a pretty good grip for someone who’s never met them,” I say softly, looking into my mug. “Frey’s… duality, yeah. Nature and pleasure, creation and undoing, all wrapped in one.” I glance at him, tone light but honest.

When he says it makes sense they’d take interest in me, no flattery, just fact, my ears go hot in the worst way. Somehow, a fact feels far more meaningful than a compliment. I take a bigger sip than I mean to, cocoa burning my throat just enough to make it look like the flush is from my drink and not the comment.

“I was really lucky,” I say instead, voice quieter, more careful now. “They answered a prayer I didn’t think they would hear. I asked to be old enough to go out and help people, to be on my own. Said I’d do it anyway, whether I was ready or not.”

When he mentions thinking about seeking Frey, something sparks in me immediately. I want to ask which Frey. I want to know what he’d ask for, what aches he’s carrying that led him to even consider it. But he doesn’t look at me when he says it, and I know that look. That shut door.

I don’t push.

Yet.

Instead, I shift when he brings up the void-luxere. I huff a dry little laugh. “Yeah, monster hunting wasn’t exactly on my to-do list either.” I turn my mug slowly between my hands. “But I think I could be good at it. I want to be.”

When he asks if I’m back for good, something flickers warm in me. It always does “Yeah,” I say, the word sure in my mouth. “I mean, I’ll still travel—I’m always going to be a bit restless—but I live in Torchline now. And since the guildhall’s here, I’m hoping Halo’ll feel like a second home. A place to return to, not just pass through.”

I glance at him again, a wry twist to my mouth. “That said… if the gods call, I’ll probably answer. I didn’t leave home just to play it safe.”

The firelight shifts, casting shadows across the planes of his face. It’s only been a couple years, but somehow he’s more than I remember. Broader, more grounded. The kind of strength that doesn’t announce itself, just exists in the quiet shape of him—the square of his shoulders, the thick cords of his forearms, the rugged sharpness of his jaw. Like the forest carved him a little rougher and kept him.

He fits here. More than I do, for sure.

I lean slightly toward him, my grin returning—brighter this time. “You ever want to come monster hunting with me?” I ask, chin tilting, teasing but not insincere. “You could bring an ax.”

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

Damien’s gaze flicked to the hearth, the flames throwing jagged shadows over the worn planes of his face, then back to Theea. The soft glow caught the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the restless spark in her eyes; eyes that held a fire of their own, fierce and unyielding beneath the delicate sweep of dark lashes. She was still a long way from the girl who’d once trailed behind him, but something familiar lingered in the set of her jaw.

“Frey’s got a reputation,” he pointed out, voice low and steady, a hint of gravel in the edges. “You’re right—nature and undoing both. Can’t have one without the other.” He paused, eyes flickering to the fire as if searching for something in the flames. “I’ve thought about what I’d ask for, too. But I don’t know if I have the kind of faith that’d make them listen. Or maybe I’m afraid of what comes if they do.”

Around them, the murmur of voices and clatter of mugs faded beneath the crackling hearth, the walls lined with antlers and tusks keeping watch in the dim light.

He cleared his throat and offered a dry, brief smile when Theea laughed about monster hunting. “I didn’t figure you for the type to stay out of the fight long.” His gaze sharpened, appraising. “Even as a kid, you had more grit than most grown adults.”

When she said she lived in Torchline now, his eyes held hers a beat longer. “Halo’s quieter, but it’s a good place to come back to. Who knows, maybe it's been waiting for someone like you.”

He set his mug down with a soft thud and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back.

A slow, almost reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “Monster hunting’s not exactly my day job,” he admitted, voice laced with wry amusement. “But there’s something honest about facing what wants to kill you. No politics, no drama, just survival.” He leaned forward, an elbow on the bar, dark eyes locking with her bright blues. “If you want to show me what you’ve learned—teach me a thing or two about those void-luxere or whatever else you've crossed paths with—I won’t say no.”

His smirk deepened as he met her teasing offer head-on. “I’ll bring the ax,” he said, letting the weight of that promise settle between them. Then he pointed a finger at her and raised his brows. “But you’d better have my back.”

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

I watch him when he speaks—not just listen, but really watch. The shift in his eyes, the way his voice drops when he says he knows what he’d ask for. I shouldn’t ask. I know I shouldn’t.

But I’m me.

“What would you pray for?” I ask, soft, before I can stop myself. The words feel too intimate the moment they’re out in the open. I glance down quickly, wincing. “Sorry. You don’t have to answer that. I know that’s a personal thing.”

When his eyes settle on me again—sharp, measuring—I try not to shift in my seat. He’s always had that look, like he could see more than he said. It used to intimidate me. It still kind of does. But when he says I had more grit than most adults even back then, something blooms quietly in my chest. I fight back a smile, and fail.

“Thanks,” I murmur, trying to play it off as if my heart isn’t thumping proud behind my ribs. If Damien saw that in me, even as a kid, then I just have to prove it’s still true.

As he sets his mug down, I take another sip of mine, watching him over the rim. His hand rakes through his hair, and when that reluctant smile tugs at his mouth, it feels like a win. A rare, golden one. I decide right then that I like his smile. I want to see it again.

And then he leans forward, his eyes fixed on mine, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s doing.

Wait. Is he actually asking me to teach him?

I blink. I mean… Ronin asked me to help train beginners. This counts as practicing for that, right?

My eyes flick over him—broad shoulders, strong arms, all that quiet strength—and I lift an eyebrow, biting back a grin. “You sure about who’s teaching who?” I tease. “You’ve definitely got more brute strength.” I sit back a little and swirl what’s left in my mug. “The void-luxere were kind of beginner-level, honestly. It was more about staying alert than anything else. Luxere are usually so peaceful—seeing them corrupted like that, charging from all sides out of the trees… it was just wrong.”

He points at me with that raised-brow look and I can’t help the amused grin that stretches across my face. I nudge his boot under the bar with mine, just enough to return the challenge.

“Always got your back.” Then I shift forward, just a little, elbow on the bar to mirror his. “As for teaching you…” I tilt my head, eyes sparking. “Why not now?”

A beat. Then I lift my chin with mock innocence.

“Unless the day has already worn you out too much.”

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 question hit with more weight than she probably meant it to. He knew what he’d ask for, had known for years, even if the shape of it had changed. But he didn’t answer right away.

Instead, his gaze lowered to his mug, watching the last streak swirl in the bottom. When he looked back up, something behind his eyes had shifted. Still sharp, still steady, but quieter now.

“Wouldn’t be anything grand. Not glory, not power,” he said eventually, voice low. A pause. His mouth quirked, just barely. “Probably a better bootknife,” he quipped, like he was tossing her a lifeline—or dodging one. “Mine’s got a loose handle.”

But there was something in the way he said it that suggested it wasn’t the real answer. Not all of it, anyway.

Damien watched her as she leaned forward, that subtle tilt of her chin both challenge and invitation. There was a flicker in her eyes; not quite mischief, not quite bravado, but something in between. She was young still, but not fragile. Never had been. Theea had always carried her own weight in silence and motion, same as him. There was something about the way the hearthlight caught her features—those keen eyes, the serious shape of her mouth—that reminded him of a fletched arrow just before it flew. Intent and beautiful and a little dangerous, if you weren’t paying attention.

He blinked, slow and deliberate, like her suggestion had caught him off guard in the best possible way. A chuckle pushed past his lips, soft and short. “Here?” he asked, the word edged with dry humor as he glanced toward the hearth, the patrons hunched over drinks, the antlers and tusks gleaming red-gold on the walls.

He rapped his knuckles lightly against the bar, as if testing it for sturdiness. “Could crack your skull on this thing just trying to dodge a jab.”

But he didn’t say no.

His eyes flicked back to her, and he found that same weight there—the spark, the dare, the way she’d nudged his boot like it was a drawn line in the snow. It wasn’t bravado. It was belief. And somehow that made it harder to turn down. 

“I’m not promising I won’t embarrass myself,” he said, brushing a hand through his hair again. “But I’ll step outside with you." There was a pause—then a flicker of a smile that didn’t quite reach full expression. “Fair warning though. If I learn quick, you might be in trouble.”

He stood, mug abandoned and boots quiet on the floorboards, and gave a small gesture toward the door with his chin. “Lead the way, teacher.”

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

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 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

Damien’s lips twitch at Theea’s question, the flicker of a grin breaking through. He raises a brow, gaze deepening with memory as the bartender behind the bar, an older man with laugh lines etched deep, calls out without missing a beat, “Damien Ulfsen! ’Member that one winter fight? Nearly brought the whole place down. You owe me a new door, lad.” 

The room hums with a few muted chuckles, but Damien doesn’t flinch. He simply nods with a knowing sort of almost-smile, his silence saying more than words could. His mug, long drained of its rich, smoky liquid—moonshine, no doubt—sits quietly on the bar. Unlike Theea, he doesn’t reach for payment. At least, not that kind of payment. The bartender’s glance passes between them, a silent nod to favors earned and trust built in this tight-knit place. The kind of rapport born from years of watching each other’s backs. If Theea remembered how Damien did business in the past, she'd know he preferred trading favors, know-how, or the odd bit of news over dropping a parcel on a counter. It was practical, like everything else about him.

Outside, the cold hits with a sharp bite that sets his skin tingling, a welcome contrast to the warmth still lingering in his chest. He breathes it in deeply, the frosty air crisp and invigorating. As they walk toward the lot, Damien’s eyes flicker to Theea with a spark of impulsive honesty, the kind fueled by the moonshine and the moment.

“It’s unfair,” he says, voice rough but steady, “how you had to grow up so fast.” The words slip out unguarded, hanging in the space between them before he shifts his gaze ahead.

The open lot looms before them, snow packed firm beneath their boots, crates and boxes forming a haphazard ring around the edges. Damien drops his own pack beside Theea’s, loosening his coat with a practiced ease, the fabric parting to reveal the broad set of his shoulders and the lean strength beneath. Calloused hands and old scars spoke to the life that shaped him, all grit and quiet endurance. (not that his stats would reflect such sentiments at the moment)

He squares his shoulders, settling into a stance that’s less trained warrior and more seasoned survivor. Knees slightly bent, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, hands relaxed but ready. The short, dark tufts of his hair stirred slightly in the cold, catching the flicker of brazier-fire with a dull gleam. There’s a calm in his eyes, a measured caution mixed with a playful challenge, as he locks eyes with Theea.

“Alright, teacher,” he says, voice low but carrying a hint of dry humor. “I’m no expert in formal sparring, but I’ve faced my share of scrapes.” He shifts forward, leaning into the moment, fingers curling loosely, muscles coiling just enough to spring.

Then, with a quick, careful motion, Damien throws the first punch—a lighter and faster attack, more probing jab than anything else. It’s all deliberate, teasing even, but with an edge of genuine curiosity. He watches her reaction, eyebrows raised slightly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. This is new territory, but he’s ready to see where it leads.

(Training 1/4)

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

My eyes spark when the bartender calls him out. I’m already planning on pestering it out of him—chipping at the edges with questions, teasing details loose like threads from a cloak like I always used to—but then he speaks again. And something about the way he says it makes me stop.

“It’s unfair, how you had to grow up so fast.”

My smile falters. Just a little. My brow pulls in, faint and thoughtful, like the words take a second to land properly.

“I never thought of it as unfair,” I murmur, mostly to myself.

I asked for it. That’s the thing. I wanted this—wanted to be old enough to go, to be taken seriously, to live a real life on my own terms. I’d been ready. Or I thought I was. So I stare at the ground as we walk, boots crunching through snow, and try to figure out what exactly he sees as unfair about it.

But then we reach the lot, and the mood shifts again.

Damien shrugs off his coat, and I catch the full weight of him in the cold light—broad shoulders, strong arms, the hard-earned muscle of someone who’s carved a life out of the wild with nothing but grit and a good blade. My grin returns like a reflex.

He’s got fitness and experience on me—me’s going to be a challenge.

I tip my head, lifting one shoulder with a lazy shrug as he squares up. “That’s alright. I’ve had a few scrapes of my own,” I say, voice lilting with amusement. “I’ll try not to bruise your ego too much.” Shut your mouth, Theea. With that kind of talk, it’s my ego that’s gonna get bruised.

When he moves, I’m already reading the tension in his legs, the way his weight shifts.

He strikes, a quick jab—but it’s cautious. Measured. Testing.

I slip to the side, letting the blow graze air where my cheek used to be. I see the flicker in his eyes, that raised-brow curiosity, and I can’t help but smirk at him from behind my fists.

“Tell me about the bar fight,” I say.

Then I lunge—feinting high with a right hook, fast enough to draw the eye, but I swing my leg low instead. A sharp, precise kick aimed for his side, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make a point.

Let’s see how quick he really is.

[ training: 1/4 ]

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

Her smile falters, and Damien notices. Of course he notices. Something in her voice when she says she’s never thought of it as unfair catches him like a hook beneath the ribs, and his gaze flickers wider, regret pulling faint lines around his eyes. He looks away, rolling his jaw the way he does when words threaten to come but won’t. How could he tell her what he meant? That there’s a certain ache in seeing someone forced to grow teeth and claws too soon. That it makes him wish for a world gentler than the one that shaped them both, a world without war crouched on the horizon or worse things lurking in the void. One where she might have been free to want independence without having to pay for it in blood.

He doesn’t try. Not now. The words aren’t ready, and besides, there’s no pulling back what’s been said. Maybe she’d resent it, maybe not. Either way, the moment passes on the tundra wind, and they square to each other.

Her dodge is clean, swift, and entirely expected but that doesn’t make it less satisfying to watch. There’s something in her footwork that tells him she’s no stranger to this kind of game, and he’s already thinking he might regret taking her head on. Then she’s smirking at him over her guard, asking about the bar fight, and before he can so much as blink she comes in fast.

It’s a good feint. A really good one. His focus hooks on the arc of her right hand, and he’s already shifting to deflect it when her boot thuds square into the hollow above his hip. A sharp breath jolts out of him, more from surprise than pain, and he pivots away, clutching his side and giving her space.

He bends as if it’s serious, lips curving into a sly, knowing smirk. “Didn’t know you fought dirty,” he says, the words dry but edged with approval.

“Which one?” The question hangs in the air, light enough to be a tease but with the weight of implication that he’s been in a few barfights.

As he stoops, his other hand falls just enough to snag a clump of snow, keeping his eyes on her face. The moment he sees her weight shift, he flings it in a blinding flurry, closing the gap behind it. His reach is longer, and he uses it — stepping inside her guard, hooking his leg quick and low behind her knee in an attempt to take her off balance. The move is quick but decisive, testing where her limits are.

[Training 2/4]

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

The moment his words land I’m already grinning.

“You didn’t ask for fair,” I shoot back, bouncing lightly on my toes, still riding the satisfaction of that kick. He’s bent just enough to look like he’s hurting, but the glint in his eyes tells me better. I’m not falling for it—

Except I do.

The blur of white hits my face before I can fully register he’s moving. Snow stings my cheek, melts against my lashes, and for half a second my vision’s nothing but bright cold and shadows.

“Oh, you ass—” I start swiping snow from my face, but he’s already inside my guard.

I feel the hook of his leg behind my knee and my balance lurches with a sharp gasp—damn, he’s quick for someone who swears he’s no expert. Instinct takes over before I can think about it. I grapple for him, shifting my weight and trying to pull him down with me, aiming to land straddled over his waist if I can. My fist comes up in a controlled arc, aimed for his jaw but with no real intent to bruise—it’s just the motion, the threat, the fun of a real spar. Really, it's the best way I bond.

“Which was your favorite fight?” I ask in the middle of it all, breath puffing in the cold, skin warm from the movement now.

[ training 2/4 ]

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

Damien barely registers the sharp word before Theea’s weight hits him, the surprise flickering across his face and then settling into something amused. He’s no stranger to a good-natured insult or a swift move, and this is exactly the kind of dance he never quite outgrew. 

His eyes widen just a touch as she shifts her weight, trying to pull him down. Damn, she’s stronger than he expected. The cold snow bites at his palms as he falls to the ground, but the heat rising between them, the quick exchange of moves and banter, sets a fire far stronger.

And he’s not about to fold easily. With a practiced roll born from years of scraping through tight spots, Damien deflects the blow she launches, catching her fist mid-air and twisting, using her momentum to pin her arms firmly to the snowy ground. The sudden reversal is a quiet declaration: this fight is far from one-sided.

Breathing steady but chest rising just enough to show the effort, he holds the position a moment longer, eyes locked on hers. The faint smirk on his lips is almost a challenge.

“My favorite?” he growls low, voice rough like gravel under frost. “There was this one, years back. Bunch of drunks got rowdy over a barmaid. Some old guy broke a chair over someone else's head, another guy lost an ear. I didn’t start the fight, but I finished it. Shoved the guy that started it right through the door. Barkeep's been buddy-buddy ever since, but.. never lets me live it down. As you heard."

He tightens his hold on her wrists just slightly, but there's enough room to invite a counter. "What now, teacher?"

(Training 3/4)

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