The next day, during our combat training, the lesson goes far better than the days before.

  Something has shifted.

  The movements Azrael taught me no longer feel foreign or forced. They rise from my body instinctively now, sliding into place as though they have always belonged to me. My muscles remember before my mind does. Each stance settles naturally. Each pivot feels earned. The flow is smooth, almost water-like, adapting and reshaping itself with every step.

  The design of it becomes clear as we move. This style was never about brute force. It’s redirection. Leverage. Patience and timing. The angle of my feet lets me slip past strength instead of meeting it head-on. The placement of my hands guides rather than strikes, turning an opponent’s momentum against them.

  It suits me.

  Azrael circles me slowly, watching, assessing. His gaze is sharp, but no longer instructional.

  He is no longer demonstrating.

  He is testing.

  The attacks change.

  They’re no longer announced by slowed movements or deliberate pauses. They come without warning now, sharp and intentional. A sudden feint to the left. A low sweep meant to unbalance. A strike that stops inches from my throat, testing reaction rather than reach.

  I fumble once, my foot sliding just enough to steal my balance. He’s there instantly, not touching me, only pressing close enough that I feel the heat of him, a silent reminder of the opening I left exposed.

  I recover.

  The next strike I anticipate.

  I stumble again moments later, misjudging the angle of his approach, but I don’t fall. I adjust. Shift. Move.

  Hold my ground.

  Azrael doesn’t slow.

  If anything, he becomes more precise. Each movement from him is something new. A strike he hasn’t shown me before. A pattern I haven’t memorized. He isn’t teaching me how to move anymore.

  He’s forcing me to decide when to move.

  Our bodies begin to mirror each other.

  We sway in positions that feel less like combat and more like choreography. A step forward answered by a pivot back. A raised arm met with a turn at the hip. We pass close enough that I can hear his breath, then separate again just as quickly.

  It’s a dance.

  One built on trust and threat in equal measure.

  I can sense it when I get it right. The subtle pause in his movement. The faint spark of approval in his eyes before he masks it away. When I use his size against him, redirecting rather than resisting, something sharp and satisfied flickers across his face.

  I’m not sparring anymore.

  I’m keeping pace.

  And for the first time since we began this training, I realize something with quiet certainty.

  He is no longer holding back.

  Then, in a brief moment lost in my thoughts, he strikes.

  He comes down hard, faster than I expect. The blow lands squarely, knocking the breath from my lungs. I hit the ground with a sharp gasp, the sky spinning as air refuses to return to my chest.

  Azrael is beside me instantly, kneeling, eyes already assessing the damage.

  “I’m alright,” I manage to huff between broken breaths.

  He studies me for a moment longer than necessary, then extends his hand.

  “Focus,” he says plainly. “Be present.”

  I take his hand and let him pull me up.

  Round two.

  We fall back into motion, gliding and circling one another, moving by instinct now rather than instruction. Our bodies react to shifts in stance, subtle changes in weight, the smallest tilt of shoulder or hip. It feels almost effortless when I stop thinking and simply move.

  This is easier than the mental training. The physicality grounds me. It feels good. Empowering. Like I’m finally doing something right, something I’m good at.

  Like I was born to fight.

  At least this way.

  I wonder briefly how this style would translate once weapons are involved. Would he teach me that too? Was that part of the plan? I haven’t even begun to learn how to strike properly, only how to evade and redirect.

  The thought distracts me just long enough.

  Whack.

  Another blow lands, knocking me back onto my rear. I hit the ground with a breath of frustration, grass scratching my palms.

  Azrael looks down at me with a mildly patronizing expression, the kind that suggests I should have known better. Still, he offers his hand and helps me up without hesitation.

  “Azrael,” I say as he pulls me to my feet, irritation creeping into my voice. “Are you ever going to teach me how to strike?”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  He arches a brow, a teasing smirk tugging at his mouth. “You think you can handle it?”

  “Of course,” I reply without missing a beat.

  “When you can’t even stay focused long enough to keep me from landing a blow,” he says, that same patronizing tone slipping back in.

  “Well…” I start, choosing my words carefully. “Maybe I’d stay focused if I wasn’t just repeating the same things over and over.”

  “Oh, I see,” he says slowly. “So you’re bored.”

  “No, no,” I backpedal quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”

  His smirk softens, reassurance flickering beneath the teasing. “How about this. Next time we train, I’ll teach you how to use this same style to strike.”

  I hesitate, then admit quietly, “I think I could handle it right now.”

  “Oh really?” His eyes gleam. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  We reset our stances.

  Before I can second-guess myself, I lunge, striking the way I’ve watched him do countless times. He blocks effortlessly, using the very technique he taught me, redirecting my momentum and stepping inside my guard in the same breath.

  Then his hand snaps across my neck.

  Not a strike. Just a tap.

  A precise, deliberate reminder.

  I freeze, pulse pounding, fully aware that if this were real, I would be dead.

  “As I said,” he murmurs calmly, stepping back, “I’ll teach you how in our next training.”

  I open my mouth to protest.

  A deep, thunderous roar shatters the quiet of the meadow.

  Both of us turn toward the sound.

  At the edge of the treeline, a massive grizzly bear emerges, its dark bulk rippling with muscle as it steps into the open. For a breath, it doesn’t notice us.

  My wolf snaps to full alert.

  She paces inside me, tension rippling, but not clawing or tearing this time. Waiting. Watching. Ready to take control if necessary.

  “Get back,” Azrael whispers sharply, already moving, his arm pushing me behind him.

  We take slow steps backward, measured and careful, every instinct screaming not to draw attention.

  Too late.

  The bear lifts its head, nostrils flaring, and roars again. The sound vibrates through my chest, through the earth beneath my feet. For a fleeting second, I cling to the hope that we are not worth the effort.

  Then, a few feet behind the grizzly, a smaller shape stumbles from the trees.

  A cub.

  My stomach drops.

  The grizzly charges.

  “Run!” Azrael shouts, shoving me hard enough that I nearly stumble.

  I turn, forcing myself to move, but something wrenches painfully in my chest. I duck behind a tree instead and look back.

  He is already running toward the bear.

  Mid-stride, he shifts.

  The transformation is violent and beautiful all at once, his body hitting the ground on all fours as a massive black wolf bursts into existence, his fur shimmering darkly in the sunlight.

  Even then, even at his size, the grizzly still dwarfs him.

  My hands tremble as I watch.

  The bear is stronger.

  Azrael is faster.

  He darts in and out of range, circling, snapping, forcing the grizzly to turn again and again, trying to confuse it, to create an opening. When he finds one, he lunges, jaws locking around the bear’s neck, shaking with everything he has.

  The grizzly barely falters.

  With a violent twist, it throws him aside.

  Azrael hits the ground hard, skidding several feet, but he’s up again almost instantly, snarling.

  They clash again and again, snapping and striking, death always just a breath away.

  But there is no sign of the fight ending. No sign of the grizzly tiring.

  Then Azrael takes a risk.

  He lunges.

  The grizzly strikes first.

  The blow lands with sickening force, sending him flying. He crashes to the ground and doesn’t rise.

  “No,” I whisper, dread hollowing my chest.

  He tries to push himself up as the bear advances, slow and deliberate now.

  “Get up,” I beg, my voice shaking, nails digging into the bark of the tree I cling to. “Please. Get up.”

  The bear raises its paw.

  Azrael barely rolls free, claws missing him by inches. He staggers back to his feet, circling again, wounded now, movements slower, clumsy.

  Then the cub wanders closer.

  Azrael’s focus slips for just a heartbeat.

  That’s all it takes.

  The grizzly strikes again.

  This time, the blow lands deep. Claws digging in.

  Azrael collapses, his body hitting the ground hard and unmoving. Blood spills freely now, dark and pooling beneath him.

  “No!” I scream, breaking from the tree. “Get up! Get up!”

  The bear looms over him, ready to finish it.

  I don’t remember deciding to move. I only know I’m running. Faster than I ever have. Faster than fear, faster than thought.

  I cannot let him die.

  My wolf surges forward, not clawing this time, not fighting me.

  Begging.

  Begging to save him.

  I give in.

  Mid-stride, I shift.

  Two legs become four, the change seamless, exhilarating. For once, it doesn’t tear me apart. We move together. I match her breathing, her heartbeat. Power ripples through us, vibrating through bone and blood as we connect as one.

  We are smaller than Azrael.

  But we are lighter.

  Quicker.

  And we have something to fight for.

  “Lirian, no!” Azrael cries weakly when he sees me. “Stop. Stay back. Don’t…”

  He tries to stand, but his legs buckle. Blood pours from the wound at his side, soaking the grass beneath him.

  I close the distance anyway.

  The grizzly turns to face me.

  I pace before it, slow and deliberate, wishing it would just leave us alone. The wind shifts, carrying my scent.

  The bear freezes.

  She sniffs the air once. Then again.

  A low sound rumbles from her chest. Not a growl.

  Something else.

  She sinks to the ground, massive body folding in on itself, head bowed in submission.

  I freeze, stunned.

  The cub toddles forward, curious and unafraid, brushing past me and licking my cheek. I don’t move. I can’t.

  Moments later, the cub turns back. The grizzly rises, casts me one last look, and disappears into the trees, her cub following close behind.

  The meadow falls silent.

  The power drains from me all at once. I shift back, legs giving out as I stumble toward Azrael.

  He uses the last of his strength to shift back too.

  He is pale now. Too still.

  Blood continues to seep from beneath him, dark and spreading.

  “Azrael,” I choke, dropping to my knees beside him, pressing my hands against the wound, trying to stop the flow.

  His eyes flutter open briefly.

  There is so much blood.

  Far too much.

  And a flicker of fear shoots through me as a thought rises.

  What if I lose him.