Meira nearly wished her vision hadn’t cleared to reveal the owner of the deep voice. The lightly accented Khaantul of General Sorin dripped with disdain as he looked at Meira and Kirsi who lingered in the shadows behind her. His muscular arms were crossed as he walked towards them. His lifted eyebrow presented a challenge Meira wasn’t sure she wanted to accept.

“Mek’are,” Kirsi greeted the man with his Juri’a title and a deep bow. She held her folded position, waiting for his acknowledgement, but his focus was firmly on Meira, like a tiger examining its next meal. Though her fear begged her to follow Kirsi’s lead, Meira held her spine straight, putting as much defiance into her stare as possible.

“We are honored to have our training graced by your presence this morning,” Sorin said acerbically, turning to gesture at the men and women behind him.

Thirty wielders of all types appeared to be sparring in the large training space. Boulders flew through the air, only to be blocked by walls of water or blasts of air. Shots of fire, thin as arrows, were deflected while larger flaming shields turned blasts of water into rising steam. Meira was enchanted. The wielding itself was magnificent, yes; but the laughter from the wielders as they moved and dodged surprised her. This was like no training she had ever experienced in her military.

The playful joy and wielding died instantaneously as Sorin’s voice rang out in Juri’a. So did the buzzing energy in Meria’s core she had come to expect when wielding occurred. The wielders turned to their leader as he spoke words Meira didn’t understand. The crane of their heads to look at her brought anxiety swooping through her chest.

“What is he saying,” she whispered to Kirsi. Seeing the woman still bowed, Meira pulled the Juri’a up against her squeak of protest.

“I told them that the Spirit Wielder is here to give us a demonstration,” Sorin answered for Kirsi, looking over his shoulder at Meira as the wielders casually moved towards the far wall in the large space.

“Oh, I am not prepared for such an,” Meira grasped at words to avoid the man before her, “honor. I would prefer to watch the impressive skills of your warriors.”

Meira tried to paint on her most dazzling smile, but it felt wooden as she watched the stony expression of the imposing man. His face betrayed no anger or frustration as she expected; instead, his full lips lifted almost imperceptibly at the corners and she suddenly felt as if she had stepped into a trap she hadn’t seen closing around her.

“Not a wielding demonstration, Mi Sventasis,” he said, the last words holding a hint of mocking. His broad hand came to her lower back and powerfully steered her with him towards the center of the open-aired space.

Meira glanced at the now deserted space, the wielders watching intently from their positions on the far wall. The rectangular space was not tiled like the rest of the palace, but dirt covered and open. An enormous pile of boulders and rocks was in one corner opposite her. Behind, a large trough of water sat in the shade of the towering wall, still and cool.

Returning her gaze to the front, Meira found the tall man standing across from her, hazel eyes pinning her in place.

“Since you are Khaantul,” Sorin almost spat the word, “let’s show them how you fight.”

He braced himself into a fighting stance, waiting for her to do the same. Meira looked desperately at Kirsi, who looked as lost as she did.

Trying to deflect one last time, Meira said, “I usually have a weapon.”

“Not today.” Sorin’s voice brokered no argument. Meira raised her hands, balling them into fists like how she had learned during basic training.

Then he attacked.

Meira let her muscle memory take over, reacting to the punches and jabs the large man threw at her quickly. Aggression fueled his moves, adrenaline hers.

A jab at her cheek dodged and parried into a shot at his shoulder. Using the opening, she goes for his solar plexus. Sorin dodges the hit, using his considerable length to get out of her shorter reach. Then he is back, going for the stomach, locking her block and then attempting a sweep of the legs she just barely dodges.

The sweat builds at Meira’s temple as they continue to spar, more evenly matched then she first anticipated. Confidence begins to infuse her moves as Meira holds her ground, avoiding Sorin's hits and keeping him back with a few well timed kicks that barely graze his abdomen. His eyes are hard and jaw clenched as he comes in close again. But she can’t help the smile that erupts on her face.

His next punch throws fire past her ear, the sizzling heat surprising her into taking a few steps back. He is gazing at her hungrily again, sending another blast at her feet, causing her to jump to the left. Shots of flame continue toward her body as she moves to elude their damage. He controls the flame, making her dance to his will. The putrid smell of singed hair tells her she needs to weave harder.

Sorin’s voice rises above the fwoosh of the throws, speaking to the wide-eyed Juri’a against the wall in their language. His attention returns to the woman in front of him, hits coming faster and forcing her back.

“I told them the Khaantul Military can’t stand up to the Juri’a and our wielding. Without your weapons, Khaantul are weak. Spineless. Defenseless.” He punctuates each of the last words with another blast, and Meira’s stomach drops as her back presses up against something. Her hands find the edge of the trough and she turns to her right, angling away from the rage incarnate prowling toward her.

Sorin continues forward until he is looming over her. The flames in his hands reflect in his eyes, but it is the hatred there that freezes Meira’s blood.

“Admit that you aren’t the Spirit Wielder.” His fury radiates around them.

Meira shakes her head, her admission, but the angry man takes the movement as defiance and his voice roars around the training space.

“Admit that you are a spy for the Khaantul Empire!”

Meira sees the fire he holds grow as one hand moves back to create a final blast. On instinct, she crouches, bringing her hands across her body to cover her face.

The cold of dumping water surprises her; she’d expected the burning heat of Sorin’s flames as he melted her skin. Bringing a dripping head up, she sees the well behind her rippling and waving, half empty. Her head turns to the man, his expression unguarded for the first time. The water rivulets running down his chiseled cheeks and strong brows amplify the shock drawn on every feature. His tunic is soaked, clinging to his muscular frame, and the puddle under him continues to grow with each plinking droplet.

The training space is silent, but the truth echoes loudly.