Magnus
"Again."
I circle Oliver slowly, my boots dragging against the training floor, sweat dripping down my temples. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, pushing damp curls from my face. The horizon is already turning pale, signaling sunrise. That means we've been at this for over ten hours—but I couldn't care less.
I need this.
I need to burn the fire in my chest, to silence the ache of her absence. If I stop, I'll have to think about missing her—and that is something I cannot afford.
Oliver exhales sharply, his chest rising and falling with fatigue. He steadies his stance, shoulders squaring before he lunges. His fist cuts through the air toward my temple, but I slip easily out of reach, disappointment flashing through me at the weakness of his strike.
I understand why. Unlike me, he isn't haunted every waking moment by rage and ghosts of calamities past. He's exhausted, desperate for rest, but too stubborn to show it in front of me.
