"Well then, Cerys, or apprentice, discipline, whatever title you'd prefer," Rhyka drawled, smirk curling at the edge of his lips, "if you're up for some learning, I wouldn't mind."
His golden eyes narrowed faintly as he extended his hand, palm up. His movements were deliberate, sharp but strangely graceful. It wasn't the awkward hand of a boy being mocked. It was the hand of someone who knew exactly how much confidence the gesture would radiate.
Cerys didn't hesitate. She let out a short, derisive snort, the kind meant to be heard, and clapped her palm into his with deliberate pressure. Her grip was strong, honed from years with the spear, calloused skin rough against his.
And then she paused.
Her brows twitched slightly as her eyes flicked down to his hand.
Soft.
