The summons came at dawn, delivered not by clay tablet but by Aylin herself. The young soldier found Zephyr near the officer quarters and gave him a once-over that lingered a fraction too long.
“Commander Ninsara wants you at the training grounds. Now.”
Zephyr nodded. “The thing on your head… it’s good.”
Aylin smiled faintly and left.
He adjusted the simple tunic he had grown used to wearing and came out. The air was still cool, carrying the sharp scent of damp earth and sweat from the men and women already drilling in the distance.
When he arrived, the training yard was alive with the crack of wooden spears against shields, the grunt of bodies colliding, the rhythmic stamp of feet in formation.
Ninsara stood at the edge of the yard. She turned as he approached, her gaze moving over him.
“You’ve spent enough time watching from the edges,” she said without greeting. “Today you train with us.”
Zephyr felt a flicker of unease. He had kept himself in good shape — disciplined workouts in Dubai. But fighting? That was another matter.
Ninsara noticed his hesitation. “Strip to the waist,” she ordered. “Heat rises quickly.”
He obeyed, pulling the tunic over his head. The morning sun caught the light sheen of sweat already forming on his skin. Several female soldiers nearby glanced over. Ninsara’s eyes did too, tracing the lean muscle across his chest and abdomen. She said nothing, but the assessment was clear in her stance.
They started with formation drills. Zephyr was placed in the second line of a shield wall.
His footwork was clumsy. He stepped too late on a pivot, causing the man beside him to curse as the line buckled slightly. When wooden spears thrust forward in sequence, Zephyr’s reaction lagged— enough for the instructor to smack his shield hard enough to send him stumbling back.
Ninsara watched everything in silence.
Next came individual sparring. They paired him with a younger female soldier barely out of her teens.
Zephyr had strength and reach, but no instinct for combat. The girl feinted left, then swept his legs with brutal efficiency.
He hit the dirt hard, breath knocked from his lungs.
As he fell, she crashed down on top of him. For a split second, her sweaty thigh pressed hard against his mouth. He shoved her aside and forced himself back up.
Each time he fell, he got up faster, jaw tight with determination.
Ninsara finally stepped forward. “Enough.”
The yard quieted as she approached. She circled him once.
“You have the frame of a warrior,” she said plainly, stopping in front of him. “Shoulders strong. Core solid. A body built for power.”
Her gaze dropped briefly to his torso, then returned to his face. “Yet you fight like a man who has never tasted real steel. You hesitate. You think when you should move. Your feet betray your intent before your arms do.”
Zephyr wiped sweat from his jaw, breathing hard. The old introvert in him wanted to look away, but he held her eyes.
“I wasn’t trained for this kind of fighting,” he admitted. His voice was steady despite the exhaustion. “Not like you. Not like them.”
Ninsara tilted her head. “Then what were you trained for?”
He hesitated for only a moment. “Patterns.”
She raised a brow, waiting.
Zephyr gestured toward the drill still happening behind her. “The second squad — their shield line drifts every seventh count. They’re compensating for the tall one on the left who steps too wide. It creates a half-second gap on the right flank. If an enemy notices it, they’ll tear through.”
Ninsara turned her head slightly, watching the formation. Her expression didn’t change, but something sharpened in her eyes.
He continued, voice calmer now. “The woman I sparred with — she favors low sweeps because her left knee is weak from an old injury. Most people see the spear. I see the rhythm behind it.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Ninsara stepped closer. Her thumb brushed near the edge of his beard. “Your mind is dangerous,” she murmured. “Sharp enough to see what my soldiers miss even after years of war.
But this…” She released his chin and tapped two fingers against his bruised ribs, hard enough to make him wince. “This is soft. In a real fight, hesitation kills faster than any blade.”
Zephyr didn’t flinch away. “Then teach me.”
The words came out quieter than he intended.
Ninsara studied him for a long moment. The yard had gone mostly silent around them, soldiers pretending not to watch their commander and the strange foreigner.
She leaned in slightly, her voice low enough for only him to hear.
“I do not waste time on men who break easily. But you… you intrigue me. Your body could be forged. Your sight already is.”
Her hand lingered near his side, fingers barely brushing the heated skin over his ribs.
“You will train here every morning,” she decided. “I will oversee some sessions myself. The rest, Aylin or others will handle. You will use your eyes to break down every formation, every weakness you see. And you will learn to move without thinking.”
She turned as if to leave, then paused.
“One more thing.”
In a single smooth motion, she closed the distance again, gripped his wrist, and twisted — not hard enough to injure, but enough to drop him to one knee in demonstration. She held him there for a heartbeat, looking down at him with that piercing gaze.
“Even sharp minds bleed when the body fails them.”
Zephyr looked up at her, chest heaving, sweat and dirt streaking his skin.
Ninsara released him and stepped back. “Clean yourself up. Report again at first light tomorrow.”
As she walked away, her posture remained every inch the commander. But Zephyr noticed the slight pause in her stride.
Zephyr caught sight of Aylin moving along the corridor and followed her without a word.
He stopped just beside her, close enough that the faint scent of sun-warmed skin and stone reached him. Brushing dust from his sleeve, he asked, “Can you tell me where I’m supposed to wash myself around here?”
Aylin glanced at him, her gaze steady. “You’re serious,” she said, a hint of amusement warming her voice. She tilted her head down the corridor.
Zephyr hesitated, then lowered his voice. “You mind showing me how this works? I don’t want to mess it up.”
She studied him for a beat, eyes tracing his face, then gave a small nod. “Follow me.”
Aylin led him through the narrow side passage that opened behind the training grounds. The shallow washing area stretched along the stone edge, canal water murmuring softly. A few soldiers were finishing up, but the space felt quieter once they arrived.
“This is where we clean after drills,” she said, voice low and practical. “Canal water for the body. Basin water for the face.”
Zephyr looked at the water, then back at her. “No privacy at all?”
She removed the helmet and set it down. “You speak as if privacy is a requirement.”
“It usually is… where I’m from.”
That earned him a longer look.
Without hesitation, Aylin cupped water in both hands and poured it over her neck and down the center of her chest. The water slid over her skin in slow, glistening trails, darkening the fabric where it touched and catching the fading light.
She followed it with a second pour, guiding the water so it flowed down between the pointed curves of her breasts that stood out proudly from her athletic frame.
The sudden chill made her nipples harden visibly, pressing prominently against the wet cloth and accentuating the firm, perky shape.
Zephyr’s gaze locked on the sight for a long, unguarded moment—tracing the way the water traced over her breasts and the way her body responded so openly to the water.
He knew he should look away. He didn’t. Not immediately.
Aylin noticed his gaze and didn’t turn away. She met it directly instead. “Among my people,” she said calmly, “they would not call this form ideal.”
Zephyr shook his head. “Then your people are wrong.”
That earned a slow, knowing smile from her.
Zephyr mirrored her movements, scooping water and letting it run over his own neck and shoulders. “So you’ve always lived like this?” he asked, voice quieter.
Aylin wiped water from her throat with the back of her hand. “My father served the canal watch. I grew up near spear lines and stone markers.” Her eyes flicked to his again, holding. “In Uruk, choice is rarely simple… but I didn’t run from this life.”
Their gazes lingered.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said finally, studying him openly.
Zephyr exhaled. “I’m not sure I know what that means yet.”
“It means you don’t carry yourself like an outsider… yet you clearly are.” She stepped back from the water’s edge, brushing droplets from her arms, her voice dropping. “And I want to understand why.”
She gave him one last look before turning to leave. “Finish quickly,” she added. “Commander Ninsara dislikes waiting.”