Soon, their meetings beneath the old oak became routine. The hours after sunset were theirs alone, sometimes all discipline and focus, sometimes laughter and teasing. Syraa’s skills became more confident and her fire steadied, her spark no longer sputtering but answering when called. The air between them changed, too: easier, closer, threaded with something unspoken that neither dared to name.

Varek changed up the pace. He switched from practice staff to blade, closer combat. He guided her stance, her hands, from shoulders to wrists. He had her run through the drills every day, while slowly teaching her a few fireborn words, having her repeat expression with movement together.

As she gained skill and confidence, he started sparring with her. First, only drills, and slowly, free fights. He let her practice her own way, focusing on parrying and challenging her but never harming. Never pushing too hard.

Some days, Syraa was pushing him harder than he expected.

“I’ll never learn if you take it easy on me,” she argued when he let her win for the third time.

“Come on, Varek!” She stepped into position after him, watching the slow smile around his lips.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he said, genuinely, without realising the effect.

“Really? You think I’m still that weak?” she protested, lunging towards him, the tip of her blade nearly catching on the fabric of his shirt.

“Not at all,” he countered, parrying the next attack, “but you’re also not experienced yet,” he went on as he slashed, and she ducked. “But you’re getting good, really.”

“Huh! Am I?” Syraa asked with a smirk, pivoting to avoid his blade.

“Absolutely. But step up closer in your attacks. That’ll give you more strength.”

She followed the instructions, his blade nearly too slow to avoid her cut.

Steel clashed, Varek keeping composed and controlled, Syraa faster and fiery. She twisted, stepped out, and lunged.

Varek’s breath caught for a moment.

“Beautiful form,” he muttered as a compliment.

But Syraa was caught off-guard. She was just a breath too slow to turn out of his range. The tip of his blade touched her shoulder. Fabric tore, a thin line of red trickled down. She hissed, but shrugged it off.

Varek’s hand froze. He swallowed hard. The dagger slipped from his hand and thudded into the dirt .

“Gods, Syraa…” he muttered, closing the distance in a long stride. He pressed a bit of the torn cloth of her shirt to the cut.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, I just…”

Blood trickled onto his fingers, soaking through the thin fabric.

“It’s fine, it’s just a scratch,” she said, his reaction affecting her more than the cut itself. She shuddered at the hoot of an owl as Varek pressed on the cut harder. His fingers pressed against her bare skin, warm against the sting of the cut, raising goosebumps along her arm.

“Varek, don’t worry about it. I was too slow, I should have…”

“No, no, I should have paid attention. I got carried away, I’m so sorry…” his voice was low and rushed, like a child explaining a mistake.

Syraa listened to his uneven breathing for a moment, and to her own heartbeat thudding in her ears. He was standing so close to her, pressing his palm onto her shoulder, that she could feel the scent of spices and tea on him. Her fingers found his other hand almost by accident. But there was no accident in the way she stepped just a half step closer, letting his fingers curl around hers.

“It’s fine. Look, it’s not even bleeding anymore.”

But Varek didn’t answer. His hand lingered just a heartbeat too long before he stepped back, jaw tight, eyes fixed anywhere but her face.

“It happens,” she added softly, though the air between them said otherwise. “It is not the end of the world.”

‘It is, though,” he muttered as he stepped away. “The end of the world. A little.”

She laughed softly as she sat beside him on the log. “Why?”

He sighed, toying with his fingers as he stared at the grass under his feet.

“I just wanted you safe. But apparently the only thing I still couldn’t protect you from was… me.”  

Syraa looked at him in silence. She watched him bite his lip, his eyes flicking from the grass to the fire and back — anywhere but her.

She gave him a soft smile. “So. Beautiful form, was it?”

He finally eased up, if only a little. He half-turned toward her, but his eyes still didn’t quite meet hers.

“It was,” he admitted at last, with a sigh.

Syraa noticed how his fingers fidgeted on the dry bark of the log, breaking off tiny flakes. She wanted to ease his mind, but didn’t know how.
“So,” she tried, nudging him with her elbow, “what’s the word of the day?”

He shrugged. “You tell me. What should it be?”

She hummed thoughtfully, lips curling. “You say you want to protect me. So what would that be? A protector?”

Varek leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “Well,” he said after a moment, “you could say dhahri. Usually translated as ‘shield,’ or ‘fierce protector.’” His voice trailed off, but Syraa’s smile didn’t.

“So you’re my dhahri then. My fierce protector, huh?”

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed a smile. “Doing a miserable job at it, though.”

Syraa laughed softly, her hand finding his. “You’re far too hard on yourself.”

His eyes finally lifted to hers, and he let his fingers toy absently with hers.

“You know,” he murmured, “your laughter’s too bright for a town like this. You’re like zeeri.”

She tilted her head. “What’s that?”

“Firelight.”