The bar was loud in the way only Aurelion bars were.

  Not roaring. Layered. Laughter folding into argument, argument dissolving into song, song dying under the scrape of chairs and the thud of boots. Smoke hung low, smelling of cheap spirits and old wood soaked too many times to ever be clean again.

  Rynor stepped inside and immediately regretted it.

  Too many eyes. Too much noise. Too many people who thought a sword made a man interesting.

  He took the seat closest to the wall. Habit. Ordered without looking. Kept his hood up.

  “Traveling?” a voice asked beside him.

  Rynor glanced sideways.

  The man was already there. Lean. Dark hair pulled back loosely. Fingers stained faintly with ink or something pretending not to be ink. His eyes were sharp but amused, like he was always a half-step ahead of the room and found it entertaining that no one else noticed.

  “Passing through,” Rynor said.

  The man smiled. “Everyone says that.”

  Rynor took his drink. “And everyone lies.”

  “True.” The man raised his own cup. “I’m Ilyon.”

  Rynor nodded once. “Rynor.”

  Ilyon’s brows lifted slightly. Just slightly. “Just Rynor?”

  “That’s enough.”

  Ilyon studied him for a breath too long. Then laughed softly. “Fair.”

  They drank in silence for a moment.

  “You carry your blade like you don’t want it seen,” Ilyon said. “But you sit like you expect trouble anyway.”

  Rynor smirked. “Habit.”

  “Dangerous one.”

  “Alive so far.”

  Ilyon stood, setting his cup down. “We’ll meet again.”

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  Rynor looked up. “That a promise?”

  Ilyon’s smile widened. “A probability.”

  Then he was gone, slipping through the crowd like smoke through fingers.

  Rynor frowned, then shook it off. Aurelion was full of strange men with stranger hobbies.

  He lifted his drink again.

  That’s when Finn’s voice cut through the noise.

  “There he is.”

  Rynor closed his eyes. “Of course.”

  Lyra stood behind Finn, arms crossed, white hair catching the lantern light like a challenge. She looked tired. Angry. Controlled in the way people get when they’ve already decided not to beg.

  They approached.

  Rynor didn’t turn his body toward them. “I’m not interested.”

  Finn blinked. “You don’t even know what we want.”

  “I do,” Rynor said. “You want something sharp to solve something stupid.”

  Lyra leaned forward, palms on the table. “I want training.”

  Rynor finally looked at her.

  Really looked.

  Calloused hands. Burn marks. Shoulders used to work, not war. Eyes steady, not desperate.

  “Tomorrow,” she continued, “I fight a man who’s hired someone to hurt me politely.”

  Finn added, “And we’d rather it not be polite.”

  Rynor snorted. “One day won’t save you.”

  “I know,” Lyra said. “I’ll still lose.”

  That caught him.

  “You’re honest,” he said.

  “I’m practical.”

  Finn leaned in. “We don’t need her to win. Just survive.”

  Rynor took a long drink. “Find someone else.”

  Lyra didn’t move. “You heard my steel earlier.”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “You listen. That doesn’t mean you know how to answer.”

  She nodded. “Teach me how not to die badly.”

  Silence.

  Rynor set his cup down.

  “Fine,” he said. “But understand this. Steel doesn’t care how brave you are. Or how wronged.”

  Finn grinned. “We like honesty.”

  Rynor stood. “Meet me outside the east wall at dawn. If you’re late, I leave.”

  Lyra nodded once. “We won’t be.”

  The dirt was cold in the morning.

  Damp. Uneven. Honest.

  Rynor circled Lyra slowly, arms folded, eyes sharp.

  “Show me,” he said.

  She raised her blade.

  Her stance was wrong. Not bad. Just… hopeful.

  Rynor stepped in and struck.

  The sound cracked the air.

  Her sword flew from her hands.

  She hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of her in a sharp, ugly gasp. Dirt clung to her cheek. Sweat broke cold along her spine.

  Finn winced. “That felt personal.”

  Rynor didn’t look at him. “Again.”

  Lyra pushed herself up, jaw clenched, chest heaving. Picked up the sword.

  Again.

  Steel rang. Her wrists screamed. Her arms burned. Each strike knocked her back a step, then two. Rynor didn’t overextend. Didn’t show off. Just cut her down with efficiency.

  Her breath came ragged now. Hair stuck to her face. Hands trembling.

  “Stop tightening,” Rynor said. “You’re strangling the blade.”

  “I’m trying—”

  “Don’t try. Listen.”

  She attacked again.

  This time, she lasted three moves longer.

  Then she fell.

  Harder.

  Rynor stepped back. “That’s all.”

  Lyra lay there, staring at the sky, lungs burning, tasting dirt.

  “I lost,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “My home will be taken.”

  “Yes.”

  She sat up slowly. Looked at him.

  “Then teach me anyway.”

  Rynor hesitated.

  Just a fraction.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “You lose. After that, if you still want to bleed for this, we’ll talk.”

  Lyra nodded, exhausted. “Fair.”

  Finn exhaled. “You’re cruel.”

  Rynor shrugged. “So is the world.”

  He turned away.

  Behind him, Lyra closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the dirt.

  Steel did not care.

  But she wasn’t done asking it yet.