Petal's POV

The morning air was sharp enough to bite. Frost clung to the training ground, painting the dirt pale silver. I wrapped my arms around myself, watching my breath mist into the cold. Across the clearing, Aslaan’s voice cut through the haze like a blade.

“Again,” he commanded.

My muscles ached from yesterday’s drills, but I lifted the wooden dagger anyway. Sweat slicked my palms, and I lunged forward, focusing on the sound of his boots against the gravel. He dodged, ...