Page 13 of Salt Between the Wolves

Under normal circumstances, Soren might have allowed the mood to remain there. Instead, he lifted the second practice blade from the rack and tossed it toward him.

“Fight.”

The sword spun once through the daylight before Riven caught it cleanly by instinct.

That drew more attention.

Not because the challenge itself was unusual, but because Soren almost never initiated sparring personally anymore, especially not without reason.

Riven hesitated briefly before stepping into the ring opposite him. “You could’ve just said you were still irritated about the ridge.”

“I’m not irritated.”

Kael, leaning against one of the outer posts, folded his arms without speaking.

Riven noticed that too.

The training circle gradually quieted around them as the others drifted farther back to make space.

Soren rolled the sword once in his grip.

“Ready.”

Riven exhaled slowly before settling into stance. “Right,” he muttered. “That usually means yes.”

The first strike came fast enough to wipe the humor from his expression immediately.

The impact echoed sharply through the training yard as Riven barely caught the blow in time, his boots skidding half a step backward across the packed ground from the force behind it. Several wolves exchanged glances while Soren pressed forward again before the recoil had fully settled.

Second strike.

Third.

Too fast. Too heavy.

Riven blocked both, but surprise had already sharpened into concentration now, his footing adjusting rapidly as he gave ground beneath the pace Soren forced onto him.

This was no longer routine sparring.

Soren knew it. So did everyone watching.

Still, he didn’t stop.

The rhythm of the fight accelerated quickly, practice blades colliding hard enough that splinters occasionally broke loose into the snow around them. Riven recovered well — better than most would have under the pressure — redirecting several strikes cleanly while searching for openings that vanished almost as soon as they appeared.

Soren gave him none.

The frustration beneath his skin had become movement now, cleaner and sharper than thought, yet no less dangerous for it.

Riven twisted sideways beneath another strike, breathing harder now. “You’re leaning too far into your left side today.”

Under different circumstances, the observation might even have earned approval.

Instead, Soren drove forward again with enough force to nearly knock the sword from Riven’s grip entirely.

The impact jarred visibly through Riven's shoulders.

Around the ring, the atmosphere had changed completely. No one spoke anymore. They simply watched, not because the fight itself had become violent, but because something about Soren felt wrong inside it—too aggressive, too relentless, as though instinct had begun outrunning the control he normally carried with such certainty.