the angels hidden blade

FOUR

In the weeks that followed Nefeli had made a conscious effort to keep her distance from the White Wolf. 

It wasn't a difficult task, as Geralt of Rivia seemed to disappear into the stone walls of Kaer Morhen like a shadow, leaving her to her own devices. 

The tension between them had hung in the air, and Nefeli found herself checking every corner, her cold fingers hovering over the hilt of her knives more frequently than usual.

Her anger continued to intensify, a burning fire within her that refused to be extinguished. 

What unsettled her most was that she couldn't pinpoint the source of her frustration, making her feel unpredictable, and she despised unpredictability.

"Emotions, Nefeli, are the treacherous rocks upon which many a shipwrecked soul has found itself. To navigate the waters, one must cast them aside, they are but burdens that weigh us down."

Vesimir's strong voice ran through her head as she tried to cast the anger, fear and frustration she was feeling away. For once it wasn't working, and she had no idea why. 

As the weeks passed, the snow began to melt, and small shoots of green grass emerged from the frigid earth, signalling the arrival of spring. 

Kaer Morhen remained cold through each season, but the thawing of snow and ice allowed for more outdoor training, which Nefeli found herself engaging in more often than not. 

Her anger made her an almost undefeatable force in the training ring, but her mind was far away, a distant storm brewing on the horizon.

A blearing pain radiated across her cheek as a fist smacked into her during a sparring match. 

Her head snapped back. Again she had been distracted. She could practically feel Vesimir's irritation at her. He had trained her not to be distracted, not to let herself slip. But she was doing so more than she should lately. 

In a fluid motion, she ducked beneath another punch and unleashed a flurry of well-placed strikes into her opponent's leather-clad torso. 

The man staggered backward groaning in pain. Nefeli rubbed her jaw. There was no blood, but a growing ache signalled a bruise forming. She had a lot forming now. 

Another sparring partner stepped forward, waiting with wide brown eyes, gauging her stance. 

With a nod from Nefeli, they engaged in a ferocious exchange. 

She disarmed her opponent and delivered a final, resounding blow, sending him to the ground. 

A sting radiated through her lip and the taste of copper told her this time she was bleeding.

As the fallen fighter groaned and slowly rose to his feet, a familiar red-headed Witcher stepped forward, a teasing smile curling his lips. 

Despite herself, Nefeli felt a small smile tug at her own mouth.

"You look really good with blood on you," Rhys declared loudly, his smirk oozing with playful mischief. 

Nefeli couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling from her chest as she straightened her posture and withdrew a knife from her side. 

She hadn't used them in the sparring match yet, but she knew Rhys well. He was strong, fast, and skilled, and she intended to have every advantage she could get.

"Thank you, Princess," she replied as she glared at him. 

Rhys often teased her like this during their training sessions, and it had become a sort of ritual between them.