Ash settled like ghosts upon their shoulders. Ana and Caden squared off in the center of the clearing, their breath curling like smoke into the chill air. Tension spun itself into a tight, invisible thread that stretched between them, waiting to snap. Ana prowled around him, her eyes the predatory gleam of a hawk circling prey. She moved with an elegance that promised violence, her every step an echo of precision and threat. The boy was less sure, his posture belying the tremor of inexperience. He held himself in a guarded stance, his face a portrait of defiant focus against the anticipation crackling between them. Caden felt his heart quicken, not from fear but from the raw promise of the fight.

The desolation of Ashenheart offered them no witness, an audience of one in the solitude of their training. Caden's grip on his courage was tight, though his hands trembled with the adrenaline of facing her. She had pushed him through drills, watched him strain and break and rebuild—but this, a true test of his mettle, sent the rush of emotion screaming through his veins.

His hands closed around the hilt of his training sword, the once-oversized weapon now more familiar in his grasp. Caden's focus narrowed to Ana as she move and circled. Her features looked almost fragile, stark against the emptiness, as if the bleakness might swallow her whole if she let it. He saw a flush on her cheeks, a sign of the alcohol that softened her edges—or would have, if she weren't Ana.

As soon as she slipped into a fighting stance, the softness vanished, replaced by something sharp and lethal. Her movements quickened, a panther's grace coiled tight and ready to spring, agile and relentless, with no blades ready—armed only with her fists and the sharp edge of her intent.

With a fluid motion, Ana was upon him. She closed the distance with terrifying speed, her limbs a blur of calculated strikes. Caden reeled, barely catching the first swing as he fumbled into defense. His reactions were slow, hampered by the inexperience that his enthusiasm could not yet compensate for.

Ana pivoted swiftly on her heel, her brow furrowed in concentration as she executed a precise sweep with her leg. Her foot connected firmly with his ankle, and he lost his balance, arms flailing in a futile attempt to regain control, dust clouding his vision as he hit the ground.

The dust filled his mouth, coating his tongue with a gritty texture and a hint of earthy bitterness. He tasted the dryness of the dirt, almost like sand, as it irritated his throat. He could also taste the metallic tang of blood from where he had bitten his lip upon impact.

The impact jarred his bones. He coughed and rolled, scarcely finding his feet before she was on him again.

"Not fast enought," she chided, her voice a cool slash against the heat of his exertion.

Caden barely parried her strike, his own counter sluggish and wide.

He staggered, scrambling to recover and counter her assault. Her blows came from every direction, precise and unyielding. Caden's attempts to block them were more wish than action, his limbs flailing as he fought to remain standing. The ground seemed to shift beneath him, ash and exhaustion conspiring to bring him down.

Ana's strikes flowed seamlessly into one another, a dance of violence that showed no mercy and offered no quarter. Caden felt the sting of her fists and feet, a reminder that he was not yet strong enough, not yet fast enough.

"Keep your stance," she demanded, sidestepping his panicked lunge with a grace that was both infuriating and inspiring. Her critique came as quick as her attacks, her breath even as his grew ragged.

Caden overextended, a desperate move that left him exposed. Ana's elbow came up and struck with perfect precision, driving into his midsection. Caden doubled over, gasping as the air fled his lungs, but he didn't fall. Bent and winded, Caden stayed on his feet by sheer will alone.

She stepped back to give him just enough space to see what he would do.

He wavered, vision blurring at the edges, but determination burned bright within him. His breath came in ragged bursts that sucked at the cold air and fueled him like a fire.

As the fight continued, Caden grew more frantic, his movements a scramble to keep pace. He was acutely aware of his own shortcomings, the way his body lagged behind his intentions.

Caden charged forward, swinging wide and clumsy, his desperation telegraphed in the arc of his swing. Ana saw it coming before he even moved, as obvious as a storm on the horizon.

She sidestepped neatly, a smooth motion that left him wildly off balance. "Too predictable," Ana called, her taunt striking deeper than any blow.

Caden's mind warred with panic, each second stretching unbearably as he struggled to find a way through the chaos. He was losing ground, his defenses useless against her onslaught. Doubt gnawed at him, turning every movement into a question: Was he strong enough? Could he ever be? The rawness of his fear fed Ana's confidence, and though he despised it, he couldn't deny how real those fears felt.

He braced against the next impact, feeling the numbing sting of defeat growing within him. But as Ana closed in, something shifted within him. Desperation gave way to a raw, unrefined instinct. His muscles remembered what his mind had lost in panic, guiding him through flashes of awareness that let him dodge and weave with newfound purpose. A glancing blow clipped his shoulder, but he hardly registered the pain.

"Better," Ana acknowledged, her voice threaded with surprise.

The small victory fueled him; even as his reserves dwindled, he felt something awaken beneath the exhaustion—something fierce and unyielding. He moved without overthinking, letting go of the fear that had shackled him. The realization hit him like the very fist he'd managed to dodge: he didn't have to match her strength or speed. He only had to hold on, to endure.

Ana saw it too, an energy that flashed. It was raw and unfocused, but there—a hint of the strength she knew he would have to develop. She let the sight of it fuel her—to push him harder.

"Stay with me," she pressed, her words as unyielding as her blows.

Caden's chest burned with each breath. Ana was tireless. He could do nothing but try to absorb them, try to understand what it took to be more than he was now.

He fought through the doubt, the fear, the exhaustion. With each strike that found its mark, each word that cut as deeply as a blade, he learned. Pain and persistence became his teachers. Ana's demands were more than a test of skill—they were a test of will.

As the sparring match reached its brutal crescendo, Caden could feel himself unraveling. Ana's relentless precision wore at him, stripping away the bravado to leave nothing. She saw him falter, the exhaustion finally taking its toll.

Then, with a deft movement, she ended it. A final blow—a tap more than a hit, really, though it knocked the wind from him all the same. Caden found himself on the ground, muscles contracting in a spasm of shock. He lay there, panting and wide-eyed, processing the swift defeat.

Ana stood over him. Her gaze was sharp, dissecting the fight, the fighter, with cold appraisal. "Keep up if you want to survive," she said, the words not cruel but clear. Her meaning was inescapable; she would not carry him through this world. He had to learn to stand on his own.

He looked up at her, a mix of frustration and admiration in his eyes. "I'm... doing my best.," he managed, each word pushed out between heavy breaths. His body was battered, but his spirit—his spirit was stubborn.

Her expression was a mask of indifference, but inside she felt the familiar twist of a memory she wished would fade. Ethan's face flashed in her mind, the same raw determination she'd seen in Caden's eyes. Once, she'd faced Ethan across a dusty courtyard just like this. Once, she'd pushed him to his limits too—and then he'd pushed back until she had no choice but to acknowledge his strength. The thought brought a flare of old anger and something else, something that left an ache beneath her scars.

Ana clenched her jaw, forcing the memory into submission. She would not lose another—to pride or to anything else. "Get up," she called.