Cassian said to me four days later, as we spent the unusually warm afternoon in the sparring ring. “Feet planted, daggers up. Eyes on mine. If you were on a battlefield, you would have been dead with that maneuver.” Amren snorted, picking at her nails while she lounged in a chaise. “She heard you the first ten times you said it, Cassian.” “Keep talking, Amren, and I’ll drag you into the ring and see how much practice you’ve actually been doing.” Amren just continued cleaning her nails—with a tiny bone, I realized. “Touch me, Cassian, and I’ll remove your favorite part. Small as it might be.” He let out a low chuckle. Standing between them in the sparring ring atop the House of Wind, a dagger in each hand, sweat sliding down my body, I wondered if I should find a way to slip out. Perhaps winnow—though I hadn’t been able to do it again since that morning in the mortal realm, despite my quiet efforts in the privacy of my own bedroom. Four days of this—training with him, working with Rhys afterward on trying to summon flame or darkness.
