Fasham. A simple word in the Old Language meaning “to tilt or unbalance” but in the mouth of an Irina, ya fasham was the command to fall.

He fell. Flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him.

“Now the staff. And remember, any spell can be amplified with man.”

“Got it,” Ava said, panting. She rolled to the side and grabbed the short staff that all Irina trained with. Malachi could remember his mother’s. Always propped in a corner of the kitchen, it looked more like a broom handle than a weapon. But in the hands of a trained Irina—

“Ha!” It came down at the side of his head.

Narrowing his eyes, he reached out and snatched the staff from beside his head, giving it a swift tug and kicking his foot out to catch her ankle.

“Shit!” Ava yelled, losing her grip on the staff. Malachi spun it around and used it to vault himself to his feet.

“Did you mean to give this to me?” he said, taunting her. “Thank you so much. My mother had one of these. I felt it on my backside more than once.”

She narrowed her eyes. “So you’re used to taking a beating? Good. I won’t feel too bad then.”

“Ha!” He didn’t try to stop her when she ran for the row of weapons on the wall. She grabbed another staff and pounced, wasting no time before raining down a flurry of blows. She’d been taught well—by Mala, he was guessing—but her inexperience showed. He easily parried her blows, pushing just hard enough to challenge her without frustrating her. He allowed her to land a few blows before he took control.

“I thought we were practicing your defensive spells,” he said.

“Seems a little unfair since I was beating you every time.”

He laughed and brought the staff down, tapping her ankle and forcing her to the corner of the mat. She feinted right, and the end of his staff bounced up, striking her right in the stomach. She went down with a sharp groan.

“Oof.” She rolled on the ground, clutching her belly.

“Ava!” He tossed his weapon to the side and fell to his knees. “Ava, I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect—”

“Vashahuulman,” she whispered, tensing under his hand. “Ya fashaman. Aman!”

The wave of dizziness swamped him, and when his eyes cleared, Ava was the one straddling him, a staff held over his neck and a smile on her lips.

“Did I ever tell you I went to acting camp?” she said. “We spent a whole week on how to take a fake punch.”

Malachi grinned. “You are evil, and I am very proud of you.”

“Thanks!”

THEY shared a shower later that afternoon before they went down to dinner. Ava was drying her hair and chattering about another spell Orsala had introduced to her that was supposed to cause instant nausea in any attacker. Messy, but effective. Malachi was listening with one ear but was distracted by examining the recovered talesm on his left arm.

“—for the spell. But that depends on me getting stronger, because that spell can only be used once I develop the ability to fly. Know what I mean?”

“Mmmhmm,” he muttered.

She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Hey, handsome.”

He looked up. “Yes?”

“So you’re cool with that, right? You can help me learn how to fly?”

He frowned. “What are you talking about? The myths about angels having wings are simply that. Myths. Ancient people had to rationalize angelic abilities somehow, thus the artistic depiction of… What are you smiling about?”

She tousled his hair. “You’re so cute when you’re being a nerd. But you should really listen to me instead of staring at your pretty tattoos.”

“I don’t remember writing them,” he muttered, “but I seem to have been somewhat obsessed in my early years with sexual potency.”

Ava burst into laughter. “Really? So that’s all magically enhanced, huh?”

He closed his eyes and gave into laughter. “Apparently so. I apologize if you thought it was natural. I hate to disappoint you.”

She was still laughing when she shoved him back and straddled his lap.

“Not disappointed, babe. Not even close.”

He lay back and let her lean over him, tracing the line of her shoulder with one finger. She’d been softer in his isolated memories of her before he’d been killed. Her arms hadn’t been lean with muscle. Her legs hadn’t been quite as thick. Part of him missed the soft give of her flesh under his hand, but the other part was satisfied that his mate was more formidable now.

“Talk to me about the mating ritual,” he said. “Are you sure you want it?”

“Why wouldn’t I want it?”

He shrugged.

“A shrug is not an answer.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I worry. It’s a permanent thing. Far more permanent than marriage.”

“But you’ve marked me, right? I’ll wear your mating marks forever.”

“Yes.”

“What did you write? What was your vow?”

He didn’t remember the ritual they had shared, but he had examined her body when the magic held her, had seen the marks he’d written with his power. They glowed gold when they were intimate.

He felt the heat in his face. “There are many passages from Irin poetry we write during the ritual. Just like there will be many passages you will have to memorize to sing to me. You know—”

“But there’s part that’s just yours, right? The part that goes up my back and then over my shoulder to my heart? That’s what Sari said.”

“Yes.” He traced the line of her back, seeing the words in his mind. He’d seen them countless times since. His own vow on her skin. A reminder of who she was and what he needed to be for her.

“What was it?”

“It was simple,” he said, suddenly feeling inadequate. The words he’d written weren’t enough. It wasn’t often that he wished he was less of a warrior and more of a poet. “I must not have had much time. If I’d had more time—”

“What did you write, Malachi?”

“‘I am for Ava,’” he said quietly. “‘For her… my hand and voice. For her, my body and mind. Her strength in weakness. Her sword in battle. Her balm in pain. I am hers. Hers to cherish. Hers to hold. Hers to command.’ That’s what I wrote.”

Malachi tried not to hear disappointment in her silence.

“I know it’s simple—”

“You see that, read that, every time my marks glow?” Her voice was hoarse with emotion.

He traced a finger over her heart, following the words he’d written there. “Yes.”

“So every time we make love, you are reminded of that vow. Every time you touch me”—she swallowed hard—“that promise is on my skin.”

“It is Irin tradition. It’s the way it has always been.”

“And you don’t want the same thing from me?”

Malachi dreamed of wearing her mating mark across his chest. It would be centered over his heart. And while the singer decided what words to include in her vow, it was up to the scribe to embellish those words and make them his own. His father’s mating mark had been an elaborate illumination from his mother’s German heritage. Scrolled flowers and birds marked the edges of her vow. He’d even broken tradition and added color.

And every time Ava faced him, her own promise would be written in his flesh.

“I want to wear your vow more than anything,” he said with a pounding heart. “But I worry. Everything seems so precarious right now.”

She sat up. “So you want me wearing your vow, but I shouldn’t make any promises to you?”

“That’s not… I don’t mean it that way. You don’t need to. I know you’re my mate.”

“Then you can take my mark, Malachi. You deserve my promise too.”

“Don’t you understand?” he asked. “You’ll be surrendering some of your power. To me. But it’s you that Jaron is tracking. It’s you whom Volund has attacked. Ava, I don’t want—”

“We’re in this together.” She spoke softly, but her voice was firm. “You heard what Orsala said. We work in balance or we don’t work at all. We survive together, or we don’t survive.”