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Allidash did not sleep deeply. He slept deliberately.
Years of habit had taught him the difference between rest and vulnerability. Even in stillness, part of him remained alert — listening for the shift of breath, the scrape of steel, the subtle disturbance that others missed.
When the warmth beside him vanished, he felt it immediately.
He did not move.
He listened.
There was no struggle. No sudden surge of reckless magic. Only the faint whisper of leather, the quiet click of a door eased shut with intention. He exhaled once, slowly.
A moment later, the sharp crack of fel fire echoed from the courtyard below.
Not chaos.
Control.
He slipped from the bed and crossed to the balcony doors without haste, pushing them open just enough to see into the courtyard below.
There she was.
Night robes abandoned for training leathers that fit close and unyielding. Dark hair bound high and tight, not a single strand permitted to interfere. She stood like someone accustomed to command, even when alone. Her chin was lifted and her spine straight. One hand was already flexing with restrained power.
The felhound at her side mirrored her tension, alert and waiting for instruction.
Allidash smirked. The dummy did not stand a chance.
Fel-fire flared from her palm.
Too fast.
The follow-up sigil fractured before it could anchor.
She stilled.
Not frustration. Not embarrassment.
Correction.
“Wait,” she murmured to herself.
Interesting, Allidash thought to himself.
She lifted her hand again.
The first sigil formed cleanly.
She paused — longer than instinct would allow.
“Patience is not weakness.”
The second ignition followed, and hit deeper this time, the sigil locked into place with deliberate precision.
The training dummy split down its centre, embers scattering like fireflies.
Allidash leaned one forearm against the balcony rail.
Velimor.
The name lingered in Silvermoon’s memory like perfume in silk. Professor. Ritualist. Measured to a fault. He had been Kezira’s mentor, thought Allidsah suspected there had been more between them.
He watched her a moment longer. She did not burn like someone seeking approval. She burned like someone who had once been shaped by another’s hand and had chosen to keep the discipline.
“Silvermoon does love its secrets,” he murmured quietly.
He descended the stairs without sound. The male felhound noticed him first, lifting his head in acknowledgement. Kezira did not turn until he was nearly behind her.
“Most elves,” he drawled lazily, “would consider it a slight to wake alone and find their warlock out here… thinking about another male.”
She did not face him immediately.
“I was not thinking about anyone.”
“No?” His gaze drifted to the ruined dummy. “You were quoting him.”
She finally turned, one brow arching.
“You were asleep.”
“I was resting.”
A faint spark flickered stubbornly at her fingertips.
He stepped closer.
“You don’t have to prove anything to ghosts.”
“I am not proving.”
“No,” he agreed softly. “You never are.”
His hand slid over hers — not correcting, not instructing — simply guiding her fingers downward as the ember guttered and began to fade.
“Put your little flame fingers down,” he murmured near her ear. “You’ve had your practice.”
“I wasn’t finished.”
His other hand settled at her waist.
“You are.”
The ember extinguished under his palm.
She tilted her head slightly, defiance still warm in her gaze.
“And if I disagree?”
His voice lowered, amused and certain.
“Then I’ll redirect your energy.”
She pushed playfully against his chest.
“Dash—”
He moved with fluid ease, one arm hooking beneath her legs, the other steady at her back.
She gasped — half protest, half laughter — as he effortlessly shifted her over his shoulder.
“Put me down.”
“No.”
The felhounds rose, clearly accustomed to this ritual, and fell into step behind him.
“You are insufferable.”
“And you are finished sparring.”
She thumped lightly against his back.
He adjusted his hold as they reached the stairs.
“I’m taking you back to bed,” he said smoothly.
And this time she did not argue.
