Az’s mouth curved. He refused to take the bait.

The sun beat down on them, warming Cassian’s bare skin and hair.

“Is this really all it is?” Nesta asked. “Circling and taunting?”

Cassian didn’t dare look her way. Not even for an instant. As soon as he so much as blinked at her, Azriel would strike, and strike hard. But—

Cassian grinned. And glanced toward Nesta.

Az fell for his deception, launching toward him at last.

Cassian, waiting for it, met the fist Az sent flying for his face, blocking and deflecting and counterstriking. Az caught the blow, ducked the second Cassian had waiting, and aimed one for Cassian’s exposed ribs.

Cassian blocked, counterpunched, and then the sparring unfolded.

Fists and feet and wings, punch and block, kick and stomp, breath sawing out of them as he and Az tried to break past each other’s defenses. Neither of them put the full force of their bodies into the blows—not the way they’d do in a real brawl, when one punch could shatter a jaw. But they used enough power to make Cassian’s ribs bleat at the impact, to make Az whoosh out a breath as Cassian landed a lucky hit to his stomach. Az was spared from having the air knocked out of him by twisting, otherwise the fight would have ended right then and there.

Around and around the ring, fists flying, teeth bared in fierce grins, they lost themselves to sweat and sun and breathing. They’d been born for such things, endured centuries of training that had honed their bodies into instruments of violence. To allow their bodies to do just what they wished was its own sort of freedom.

Faster and faster they fought, and even Cassian’s breathing became labored. Though Cassian had more bulk, Azriel was quick as hell—they were evenly matched. They might be at this for hours, if they were truly facing each other as enemies. Might have been at it for days, if they’d been opponents in one of the old wars, where entire battles had come to a standstill to watch great heroes go head-to-head.

But time wasn’t unlimited, and he did have a lesson to get through with Nesta.

“Right,” Cassian panted through gritted teeth as he blocked Az’s kick and bounced a step back, circling again. “Whoever lands the next blow wins.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Az panted back. “We go until one of us eats dirt.”

Az had a vicious competitive streak. It wasn’t boastful and arrogant, the way Cassian knew he himself was prone to be, or possessive and terrifying like Amren’s. No, it was quiet and cruel and utterly lethal. Cassian had lost track of how many games they’d played over the centuries, with one of them certain of a win, only for Az to reveal some master strategy. Or how many games had been reduced to only Rhys and Az left standing, battling it out over cards or chess until the middle of the night, when Cassian and Mor had given up and started drinking.

They circled again, but Az snapped his head toward Nesta, eyes wide.

Cassian looked, heart leaping into his throat—

Azriel struck, a punch to the jaw hard enough that Cassian staggered.

Reeling, steadying himself, he cursed.

Az let out a soft laugh, eyes flickering. He’d wielded the same deception that Cassian had used at the start of this, played the one card that would get Cassian to remove his focus from an opponent.

It had happened before—against Hybern. Nesta had screamed his name, and even in the midst of the battlefield, he’d abandoned his soldiers and rushed for her, not caring about anything other than reaching her, saving her.

Only, Nesta had saved him. And she had screamed his name to get him out of the Cauldron’s range.

His soldiers had been blasted apart a moment later. And when he’d looked at her face, he’d understood something—something that the past year and a half had shredded apart and turned cold.

Cassian rolled his shoulder, hand at his jaw as he said to Az, “Bastard.”

Az laughed again, and they turned toward Nesta.

She remained a pillar of cool calm, but a line of color stained her cheeks.

There was no wind to blow her scent to him, but from the way her throat bobbed as she glanced between them …

Azriel let out a cough and walked toward the water station.

“You’re drooling,” Cassian said to her, and Nesta went rigid.

“If there was anything enticing,” she hissed, entering the ring, “it was seeing Azriel punch your face.”

Cassian motioned for her to get into her fighting stance. “Keep telling yourself that, Nes.”

“What do you know of the Dread Trove?”

“The what?” Gwyn turned from the desk where Nesta had found the priestess singing softly to herself, situated just outside Merrill’s shut office door.

“The Dread Trove,” Nesta said, wincing at her sore body’s protestations as she took a seat on the edge of Gwyn’s desk. “Three ancient artifacts …”

Gwyn shook her head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Nesta was still sweaty from the lesson with Cassian and Azriel. They’d walked her through the punches and kicks and steps they’d done with ease, though neither had laughed when she was clumsy or ungraceful.

Seeing them spar had been overwhelming. Their beautiful forms, tattooed and scarred and carved with muscle, gleaming with sweat as they fought with a viciousness and intelligence she’d never seen … She’d been sweating herself when they’d finished, wondering what it’d be like to be between those two male bodies, letting them turn all that lethal attention on worshipping her.

Elain would faint to hear such thoughts. And to hear that Nesta had already had two males in her bed not once but twice, and had enjoyed every second of it. But the males Nesta had shared herself with hadn’t looked like Cassian and Azriel. Hadn’t been Cassian and Azriel.

Nesta had made herself focus during the lesson, but as soon as she’d left them in the training ring, filthy thoughts had poured in, leaving her half-distracted while she’d walked down to the library. The thought of Cassian pumping into her mouth while Azriel pounded into her from behind, the two of them working her in tandem—

Talking to Gwyn about the Dread Trove had sobered her up fast enough.

“It seems like the Trove has a glamour to make people forget that it exists,” Nesta said to Gwyn, and succinctly explained what it was, along with vague details about why it was wanted. She didn’t mention Queen Briallyn, or Koschei, or the Cauldron. Only that the Trove must be found quickly. And that Gwyn should not mention it to anyone.

Nesta supposed that in doing so, she directly disobeyed Rhys’s order for silence, but … to hell with him.

When she was done, Gwyn was wide-eyed, her face so pale that her freckles stood out in stark relief. “And you must find it?”

“I don’t have the faintest idea where to begin looking. Which one to find first.”

Gwyn chewed on her bottom lip. “We do have an extensive card-cataloging system,” she mused idly, but peered toward the stacks beyond them, to the open pit at the bottom of the library. “But they don’t list what’s below Level Seven.”

“I know.”

Gwyn angled her head. “So why come to me?”

“You’re clearly good at what you do, if you’re working with someone as demanding as Merrill. If you have a spare moment, any help would be appreciated. Or just point me in a direction.”