26. Athena

26

ATHENA

T he afternoon sun beats down as I dodge another swing from Raven's practice sword. Sweat drips down my back, making my tunic cling to my skin. The courtyard's stone floor radiates heat, and my feet ache from hours of footwork.

"You're getting better." Raven's violet eyes narrow as she circles me, her midnight hair pulled back in a severe braid. Despite her damaged leg, she moves like liquid shadow. "But you're still telegraphing your strikes."

I grip the wooden sword tighter, my muscles burning. "I'm trying?—"

"Don't try. Do." She lunges forward, her dove-gray wings flaring for balance. I barely block her attack, the impact jarring my arms. "You've got good instincts. Trust them."

My chest heaves as I reset my stance. Three hours of training, and she hasn't even broken a sweat.

"Speaking of instincts..." Raven's lips curl into a knowing smirk. "Have you talked to Uriel lately?"

The question catches me off guard. My sword dips. "Not since the other night." When he fucked me ruthlessly and has since avoided me. "Why?"

She attacks again, forcing me to focus. "No reason."

"Raven—"

"Your guard's dropping." She taps my ribs with the practice sword. "Again."

I growl in frustration, but she just laughs. The sound echoes off the courtyard walls.

"Are you happy here?" Her tone shifts, becomes gentler.

The question makes me pause. Beyond the training yard, Uriel's mansion sprawls across the countryside, its gray stone walls and elegant spires a stark contrast to the wild meadows surrounding it. The workshop's chimney puffs steady streams of smoke into the crystal-blue sky.

"I am." The answer comes easily. "It's different from home, but... I don't feel trapped here." Then I add with a smirk, "Even with all the training."

"Good." Raven's expression gives nothing away, but there's something in her eyes I can't read. She shifts her weight, favoring her left leg slightly – a tell she'd never show in real combat. "Now, show me that defensive sequence again. And this time, keep your elbows in."

I flow through the defensive sequence, but my mind wanders at her question. When was the last time I plotted an escape? The realization hits harder than Raven's practice sword – I can't remember.

My feet falter on the hot stones. Three months ago, I would've been cataloging every guard rotation, testing window latches, measuring distances between balconies. Which is what I always did at home.

Now? I know which floorboards creak in the east wing. I can read all three xaphan like a book. I can navigate the workshop's maze of shelves blindfolded.

"Focus!" Raven's sword whistles past my ear.

I duck, muscle memory taking over where my scattered thoughts fail. The movement sends my honey-blonde curls tumbling free of their tie, ringlets sticking to my sweat-dampened neck.

This isn't what Father or Astrid ever wanted for me. I'm supposed to be the gentle one, the healer, safely tucked away in our family's compound. Not sparring with a xaphan warrior or living under the same roof as...

The thought of Uriel makes my chest tight. I see flashes of golden curls, cruel smiles that somehow don't seem so cruel anymore. The way his massive wings cast shadows across the workshop floor. The citrus-and-metal scent that lingers in rooms long after he's gone.

And I remember Raven asking me what I want, something my family never did. It has made all the difference for me to finally be able to answer that.

Raven's practice sword catches me in the ribs again. "Your head's in the clouds."

I rub my side, knowing it'll bruise. Another mark to add to my collection, proof that I'm not the sheltered innocent everyone thinks I am. Or am I? Here I am, playing at being a warrior, while my magic-wielding captors humor my attempts at strength.

But that's not fair. Raven's been teaching me real skills, not just humoring me. And Uriel... he looks at me like he sees something more than just a fragile human to protect.

When did these demons start feeling less like jailers and more like...

I can't finish the thought. Won't. Instead, I raise my sword again, ignoring the tremor in my arms. "One more time."

Once Raven finally lets me go, I wash up and head to the place that I feel most at home - the workshop. It's funny to me how much I've come to love being in here, even if it's just lounging in Uriel's office.

The workshop's heat wraps around me like a blanket as soon as I step through the door. I spot vials that need sorting, and I head to them. Each one catches the afternoon light, sending rainbow fractals dancing across the wooden workbench.

Uriel gives me a soft smile as he comes from his study to work at his forge, the flames casting a golden glow across his perfect features. His wings are folded tight against his back, the light gray feathers ruffled from the heat.

I reach for an empty vial just as Uriel's hand extends behind him. Without looking, I place it in his palm. He doesn't pause in his work, doesn't even glance back. The rhythm feels as natural as breathing.

"The purple powder." His deep voice carries over the forge's crackle.

My fingers find the correct jar before he finishes speaking. When I set it by his elbow, his lips quirk up at the corner. That cruel smile that used to make my skin crawl now sends warmth through my chest.

The workshop smells of metal and magic, undercut by that citrus scent that follows him everywhere. I breathe it in as I move to the shelf of finished weapons, organizing them by type. A sword needs cleaning – I grab the oil and cloth without him asking.

"Your form was sloppy today." He doesn't look up from the blade he's enchanting.

"You were watching?"

"Always." The word hangs in the air between us.

I focus on the sword in my hands, pretending the heat in my cheeks is from the forge. The blade's surface reflects my golden-green eyes back at me, distorted by the damascus patterns in the steel.

"Hand me the binding runes." He extends his hand again.

I select three stones from the collection, each etched with glowing symbols. Our fingers brush as I pass them over. His skin burns like the forge itself.

The magic builds as he works, making the air thick and heavy. My hair starts to curl more in the humidity, but I don't mind. There's something mesmerizing about watching him work, the way power flows through his hands into the metal. He doesn't show off with flashy spells like other xaphan. His magic is precise, controlled – just like everything else about him.

I return to sorting vials, but my eyes keep drifting back to his hands, watching them shape metal and magic with equal skill. We move around each other in a dance we've perfected over months, anticipating, adjusting, never breaking stride.

I run the oiled cloth over another blade, watching the metal shine. The silence between us feels comfortable now, not suffocating like it did those first weeks. When did that change? When did his presence stop making my shoulders tense?

"You're distracted." His voice cuts through my thoughts.

"Just thinking." I set the sword aside, studying his profile as he works. The forge light catches his golden curls, turning them almost white-hot. His wings shift, feathers rustling with each precise movement of his hands.

"Dangerous habit." That cruel smile plays at his lips.

"Why did you take me that night?" The question spills out before I can stop it. My heart pounds against my ribs as his hands still over the forge.

For the first time since I've known him, Uriel hesitates. His golden eyes fix on the metal before him, avoiding my gaze. The workshop feels smaller suddenly, the air heavier with more than just magic.

"You were beautiful." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Standing there in your father's garden, moonlight in your hair. I wanted you." His wings flex, casting shifting shadows across the workbench. "So I took you."

I should be horrified. Should hate him for his casual admission of theft, of treating me like something to be claimed. Instead, my lips curve up. Heat blooms through me that has nothing to do with the forge.

"You're smiling." He turns to face me fully now, those perfect features sharp with interest. "Most would call that response concerning."

"Most would call you concerning." The words come easily, playfully. When did that happen? When did our barbed exchanges lose their sting?

His laugh echoes off the workshop walls, dark and rich. The sound wraps around me like smoke, and I find myself leaning toward him without meaning to.

"Little demon." His eyes darken as they track the movement. "You're not afraid of me anymore."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No. I'm not."

But I'm afraid of what he is doing to me and that is far, far more dangerous.