The knife glinted under the warehouse light.
Beren's fingers curled around the hilt, her grip steady.
Across from her, Emir watched, arms crossed. "Go on," he urged. "Make the first move."
She lunged.
The blade sliced through air, fast—but not fast enough.
Emir dodged, his body moving like a shadow. Before she could react, he was behind her.
A hand around her throat. A knife pressing against her side.
"Dead." His voice was a whisper in her ear.
Beren clenched her jaw. "Again."
Emir smirked. "That's what I like to hear."
By the time the night ended, Beren's hands were raw from gripping the blade. Her muscles screamed in protest.
But the fire in her eyes had only grown.
She wasn't the same girl who had walked in here.
She was changing.
And Emir?
He was watching every second of it.
With fascination. With pride.
With something much darker.