A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses #4) by Sarah J. Maas

“Does it bother the others?”

It distracts them, to see someone kicking and punching at shadows.

Cassian had to duck his head so she wouldn’t read the amusement in his eyes. “I’ll talk to her. Is she down there now?” He nodded to the sloping ramp. “With your permission, of course.”

This was their safe harbor. It didn’t matter if he was a member of Rhys’s court, or that he’d come here before. Every time, he asked permission. He’d only ever failed to do so once: when Hybern’s Ravens had attacked.

Yes. I give you permission to enter. Nesta is on Level Five. Perhaps you shall manage to get through to her.

Taking that as his cue, Cassian rose. “You do know this is Nesta Archeron we’re talking about? She does nothing unless she wishes to. And she’s the least likely to listen to me.”

Clotho huffed a laugh. She has a will of iron.

“Of steel.” He smiled. “Good seeing you, Clotho.”

You as well, Lord Cassian.

“Just Cassian,” he said, as he had said so many times now.

You are a lord in good deeds. It is not a title born, but earned.

He bowed his head as he said thickly, “Thank you.”

It took him until he reached the section where Clotho had said Nesta would be to shake off the high priestess’s words. What they meant to him.

The scuffing steps greeted him first, then the steady, rhythmic breathing he’d come to know so intimately. Cassian made his breathing match it, turned his own steps silent, and peered into the next row of stacks.

Anyone walking along the ramp would only have to look to the right to see Nesta standing there, in a near-perfect fighting stance, throwing punches toward the shelf. She’d picked five books as targets and worked through each punch toward them as if they were the parts on a body he’d shown her where to strike.

Then she halted, blew out a breath and brushed back a strand of errant hair, and straightened the books before returning to the metal cart behind her.

“You’re still dropping your elbow,” he said, and she whirled, falling back against the cart with enough surprise that he swallowed his laugh. He’d never seen Nesta Archeron so … ruffled.

She lifted her chin as she stalked toward him. He watched every movement of her legs. She’d stopped throwing her weight onto her right leg so much, and muscles shifted in her thighs, sleek and strong. Three weeks might not be much time for a human body to pack on muscle, but she was High Fae now. “I’m not dropping my elbow,” she challenged, emerging from the row of stacks and into the flat area before the slope of the ramp.

“I just saw you do it twice with that right hook.”

She leaned against the end of a long shelf. “I assume Clotho sent you to reprimand me.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t know you were so invested in the training that you kept at it down here.”

Her eyes practically glowed in the dimness. “I’m tired of being weak. Of depending on others to defend me.”

Fair enough. “Before I dispense with the lecture about ignoring Clotho’s requests, let me just say that—”

“Show me.” Nesta stepped away from the shelf and squared off against him. “Show me where I’m dropping my elbow.”

He blinked at the rippling intensity in her face. Then he swallowed.

Swallowed, because there she was: a glimpse of that person he’d known before the war with Hybern had ended. A glimmer of her, like a mirage—like if he looked at it too long, she’d slip away and vanish.

So Cassian said, “Get into your stance.”

Nesta obeyed.

Hoping Clotho wouldn’t come shove him over the railing for disobeying her orders, he said, “All right. Throw the right hook.”

Nesta did so. And dropped her damn elbow.

“Get back into position.” She did, and he asked, “May I?”

Nesta nodded, and kept perfectly still as he made minute adjustments to the angle of her arm. “Punch again. Slowly.”

She heeded him, and his hand wrapped around her elbow as it began to dip. “See? Keep this up.” He maneuvered her arm back into starting position. “Don’t forget to flow the weight through your hips.” He took her arm, keeping a good foot of distance between their bodies, and moved it through the punch. “Like this.”

“All right.” Nesta reset herself, and he took a step away. Without his order, she did the punch again. Perfectly.

Cassian whistled.

“Do that with more force and you’ll shatter a male’s jaw,” he said with a crooked grin. “Give me a combination one-two, then four-five-three, then one-one-two.”

Nesta’s brows bunched as she reset herself. Her feet shifted into position, grounding her weight into the stone floor.

And then she moved, and it was like watching a river, like watching the wind cut through a mountain. Not perfect, but close.

“If you did that against an opponent,” Cassian said, “they’d be on the ground, gasping for air.”

“And then I’d make the kill.”

“Yes, a sword through the heart would finish the job. But if you struck their chest hard enough with that final punch, you might make one of their lungs collapse. On a battlefield, you’d opt for either the killing blow with a sword or just leave them there, unable to move, for someone else to finish off while you face the next opponent.”