Faine twisted the golden ring on her middle finger. Two weeks after solving the first mission and she'd finally received what belonged to her. To wear such an emblem, to declare herself a part of Silver Willow, it was a nightmare she never thought would come true. In all walks of life, she longed to avoid a place that held so many memories of a past relationship. Zebulon knew exactly where to strike.

The ring fit her finger perfectly and her skin tugged when she spun it, over and over again to get the feel of having such a treasure. Men and women that carried the piece of jewelry were killed for having it in their possession alone. Crime guilds, the Echo Market, or anyone in league of killing those with stature were the opposers that Faine had to look out for.

From where she stood, underneath the shade of a large pine tree, Faine watched Ilian and Ginevra go through the motions of sword fighting. They had two very different strengths, Ilian worked in ways of overcoming his opponent, and Ginevra did whatever she could to undermine those that wished to overrule her. Complete opposites, clashing as one.

Ginevra was swifter than Faine thought she'd be. Once wearing something other than a fine gown with her hair pinned back, golden cuffs protecting her pointed ears, she was hard to detect. Like a cat which made sense for her kind.

But it didn't matter how quick or swift she was. They'd fought too many times to not know what the other planned. Every attack Ilian made, she blocked; every attack by Ginevra, in return, he blocked. Neither of them actually got a strike across and it wasn't at the fault of their own—their skills were merely too advanced for such an opponent. Techniques lasted through minutes of the fight and finally, Ilian dropped low, underneath the sword aiming for his head, and took out Ginevra's ankles.

She fell to the grass, landing on her butt, and stuck out her bottom lip in disappointment. Faine was too far away to hear what he said to her when he extended his gloved hand down, but it didn't make her feel any better. This had been the routine over the last two weeks, shadowing Ilian and watching him flirt with Ginevra to the point it was suffocating. They clearly had something special, but both were too afraid to admit it.

Faine was learning, by herself, everything about Silver Willow. Their routines, the strongest, the weakest, the stealthiest, and the most dangerous. Eliphas was at the top of the list, and whether it was Faine's mind playing tricks on her or an actual occurrence, but the floorboards near her door always creaked. Someone walked by her room every night, at least she believed. The dagger hugged close to her chest and the now-open passageway between her room and Ilian's was her only protection.

It had taken her a week to remove the wedges in the back door of the armoire. Ilian deemed himself trustworthy after the only time he bothered her was to remind her of working in the kitchens with Ametrine. She did that faithfully every morning and completed small missions with Ilian and Ginevra in Olhathas. Nothing of importance and no more encounters with Tyvni; Faine was beginning to wonder what was happening at Rising Eternity. Most importantly, she needed to find a way to get back without being suspicious.

All in due time.

Ilian cupped a hand around his mouth. "Your turn!" he shouted towards her. This, after all, had been why she ventured outside. There was nothing to do in her room and Ametrine was too busy with her own missions to bother with friendship beyond the kitchen walls. Faine wasn't versed on being so...bored and alone.

"I'll warn you; he's in rare form today," Ginevra grumbled. She extended out her sword towards Faine, but she shook her head.

"I have weapons already," she said.

Both of them looked at her quizzingly. A sword didn't hang from her hip, a dagger wasn't strapped to her belt, no knives clung to the inside compartments of her knee-high boots. They waited, holding their breath until she flicked both wrists and revealed the hidden weapons in her bracers. Twisting her wrists back and forth, she held them up to the sunlight breaking through the trees.

"You can't fight with those," Ilian proclaimed. "It's not fair for you to lose so quickly."

Her white fangs glittered when she barred them against his grin in warning. "You haven't yet seen me fight, have you?"

"I have not, but against a sword, you don't stand a chance."

Ginevra clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and sheathed her sword. "Beat him," she whispered. "I hate when he gets cocky." She stepped off to the side and gave the two of them space in a patch of grass meant for these battles.

In the forest, there was hardly any spare dirt. If there was, it quickly became overrun by grass, but battles held on uneven terrain was the best way to learn strength. Besides, the entire patch was trampled and flat—close enough to dirt to suffice.

Ilian didn't waste any time to drop himself into the ox position. He stared down the underside of the blade at her, knees bent and arms tensed. If he was like many of the others she trained with, he'd strike first.

And he did. In the flash of a second, he broke out of the ox position by swinging the sword—seemingly twisting it around his wrist—to aim for her head. Faine leaned back, bending, and the tip was an inch away from slicing the bottom of her jaw. She folded her arms behind her back, raised her brows, and grinned. Ninety-nine years of doing exactly that taught her too many things about foolish competitors.

Ilian looked her up and down and swung again, this time aiming for her left side in the way one swings an axe. Ignoring the onrush of his body, Faine stepped to the side and bent back again when he brought the sword up to her chin, but missed terribly when she reached for his elbow and thrust up, pinning one of her hidden blades against his underarm.

"You just died," she said with ease.

He froze where he stood, arms raised high in the air and twisted into an uncomfortable stance that gave him such a disadvantage that if Faine wanted to, she could thrust the tip of the blade into his underarm without a second thought.

"Again," he barked. His muscles tensed underneath his white shirt.

Faine smirked over at Ginevra and received a similar, goofy expression from the fladline. It was time to remind Ilian that he wasn't the only member of strength here, Faine wasn't just a recovering victim of abuse, she knew her way around a battle, too.

The ox position was a favorite of his. He dropped into it again and Faine blew a breath out through her nose, impatiently waiting for him to strike for her. Innocent, young cobalt eyes had never held such rage and confusion. It overwhelmed his motions, made Ilian believe he was outnumbered against only one.

He spun, but Faine saw what was coming. Instead of bringing his sword all the way around and conveying it down sideways, he thrust straight forward and aimed for her abdomen. Faine stepped out of the way, crafted a spin of her own, and pressed one blade against his throat while the other wrapped around the sword and thrust it up into the air.

"You're quite sloppy at this," she whispered and winked.

"You're just lucky," he whispered back. Ilian locked his eyes onto hers. "Again."

"Fine, but it's quite foolish to lose three times by a—"

He swung for her head and Faine ducked out of the way and immediately dodged left to avoid him slicing back up for her side. She kept her hands folded behind her back to make herself smaller, more mobile, and bent her body in ways unimaginable to avoid each of Ilian's attacks. He screamed through his teeth and she chuckled darkly, earning herself a kick to the stomach that wasn't expected.

Faine flew back and slammed against the grass. The only sound was Ilian panting in rage and the ringing in her ears caused by the back of her head slamming against the ground. Then, the sun blotted out, replaced by the mortal.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to lose my temper," he said. It took Faine a moment to realize why he was staring at her in such fear and regret; he believed the abuse she faced against her husband was real.

I can take a punch, a kick to the throat, a blow to the gut, and I know how to lie to save my own ass.

It was so real at the time and Ilian digested every word, soaked them up and swallowed them whole. He believed what he just did was exactly what she faced against a man that knew no boundaries beyond what it took to make her realize pain was a mercy compared to death.

She stared up at his young, mortal face and tried to think of a way she could get out of this without hurting him. Ilian's heart was too big for his chest, and though he was a mortal, there needed to be more like him. Caring too much was a fault for many, but not for him.

"I'm sorry," he repeated and extended down a hand.

Faine took it, wrapped her hand around his, and brought her legs up to her chest and flung them back out to wrap around Ilian's knees. She twisted to the side, taking him with her, and sat atop him, a blade to his throat. The mortal boy was so stunned that he didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't do anything other than lose his grip on the sword and let it topple to the grass next to his head.

"Never apologize for winning a fight," Faine said quiet enough for only him to hear. "Do what you have to do; against anyone."

"But you—"

"I don't care." She shook her head and closed her eyes for a second. "You will not know your opponent's past and that is an advantage. Strike to kill—nothing less and nothing more."

Faine removed the blade and pushed herself off of him, being the second one to offer down a hand. Standing off to the side, Ginevra watched them closely and didn't say a word when Faine picked a piece of grass from his hair and brushed off his shoulders. To think his heart was breaking for her; it wasn't fair. Her stomach tightened itself into knots and her head spun, but Faine remained standing.

"How did you learn how to do that?" he asked.

She knew what he meant. "Years of practice. I wasn't always married, you know. And I have to maintain some skill if I wish to be part of something like this."

"Can I try?" Ilian's stare darted to the hidden blade on her left arm.

She'd never parted with them, had worn them every day for ninety-five years and cleaned them, sharpened them, restored them to their simple beauty nearly every night with polish. But, for some reason, Faine was unstrapping the bracer on her left arm and handing it over to the mortal standing before her. A phantom weight remained against her forearm but the source of it now rested against Ilian's sleeve.

"Flick your wrist," Faine instructed.

He did, though not at all strong enough.

For example, she did it herself. Like a training puppy, he watched her movements and mimicked them, receiving the same result. The blade whined free and Ilian examined it, the mechanism and the structure itself.

"You don't need much to win a fight," Faine said. "Outsmart your opponent and you'll find that it's easier." She looked to Ginevra. "If you would, come at Ilian in the feverish way he came at me. Allow him to test the blade."

Ilian gave her a deadpan stare in response to her backhanded insult. Feverish. Mortals attacked in the same way they lived every other aspect of their lives. Like they didn't have time, they feared what was coming next and if they'd die with a slow-moving sword. The way their hearts beat, rapidly, was the same way they did everything else.

In fact, Faine was attempting to block out Ilian's racing heart pounding into her skull, but whatever was plaguing him—guilt or fatigue—it wasn't going away anytime soon.

"Focus on avoiding attacks," Faine went on as they stood before each other, facing with weapons of their own. He appeared lost and out of his element without a sword in his hand, but the hidden blade would work wonders for what he sought to achieve. There was a reason they hid, rather than exposed in the way a sword gleamed. "Don't deliver them, avoid them."

"Then how am I going to win?" Ilian asked.

"A sword is a heavy weapon to carry. With as much as it takes to deliver an attack, there is a large follow-through. Seconds you have to render your opponent useless. But first, you must learn to avoid attacks if you wish to backhand her."

"That seems—"

"Ginevra, now."

The fladline swung the sword for Ilian's head and he dropped to the ground and brought the blade up in an attempt to block. The metal bracer was strong, but not for what he wished to use it for. Faine winced at the thought of him getting his arm sliced off.

But he was up and moving a second later, bending back against Ginevra's attack. He was sloppy and untrained, but better than most she'd seen in both bases. Many had the false mentality he carried; big swords meant for big attacks and even bigger wounds. The weight of a sword alone brought down many, but hidden blades were nearly built within the body itself.

They went through sequences; Ginevra aiming for his left side and then his right, followed by a swipe for his legs. Ilian managed to avoid each one, barely, but he wasn't connecting the two together. How to avoid and how to defend. His body was only focusing on one thing at a time, rather than everything. The fault of a mortal.

"Now, figure out how to deflect her attacks." Faine had to raise her voice over Ginevra's growl as she dropped to a knee and swung for Ilian's calves. He leapt over the blade. "You can dodge all you like, but you must find a way to get your blade against her body."

Ilian snarled through his teeth. Sweat dripped from his brow and he clenched his hands into fists. Surprisingly, he hadn't cut the inside of his wrist yet. It was the fault of nearly everyone that attempted to use the hidden blades for the first time. At least that he had figured out.

There was a split second between Ginevra's aim for Ilian's side—one he avoided—and the attempt that came after it. Ginevra brought the sword up from the depths of hell itself, making to slice him in half at the start of what was between his legs. Ilian slammed the side of the blade down onto the sword and kicked the inside of Ginevra's elbow.

It wasn't the perfect way to fend off that attack, but it was decent enough. The sword fell out of her hand and Ilian pointed the tip of the hidden blade at her heart, meaning he'd won.

"How was that?" Ilian panted.

Faine half-shrugged and rolled her neck back and forth. "It was...fine. You need practice; you're sloppy."

The response she received was him rolling his eyes. "I'll get better, I suppose. Unless you wish to have this back." He twisted the bracer, and it caught in the sunlight.

"Of course I do." Faine extended out her palm. "Unless you wish to lose again."

Ilian wasn't completely pissed at her, for he grinned and began unstrapping the bracer around his forearm. When it fell back into her palm, Faine restored her sanity to completeness. No longer did her right side outweigh the left and all the pieces of her heart folded back together as one. If the bracers were the last things she had of her own, she'd cherish them forever.

Bits of her heart had shattered beyond repair from the past, but that never meant the day had to be long and dreary. This life was Faine's, and if she could find a way to smile like she was with these members of Silver Willow, she would. Day by day, she shoved down the emptiness and searched for new beginnings. The only thing was—she worried about the day when she'd open her eyes after a restful slumber and feel nothing.