The training ground smelled like sweat and steel, but somehow, all I could smell was her—crushed rosemary, wind, and wild fire. Tamzin. She moved like the wind through tall grass, fast and impossible to pin down. My boots dragged against the packed dirt as I turned, just barely in time to block her next strike.
Her claws flashed like silvered lightning, slicing the air between us as I ducked. Tamzin moved fast—too fast—her sandy hair pulled into a messy braid that swung with every calculated twist of her body. Her eyes, sharp and amber, locked onto mine with a predator's focus. There was nothing hesitant about her. She lunged again, half-shifted hands like curved blades meant to wound, not spar.
I barely blocked her in time, the thick pads of my own claws meeting hers with a hiss of friction. The impact jarred through my forearms. She didn't pull her punches. Not with anyone—and definitely not with me.
"You're slow today, Swift," she said, grinning through bared teeth.
