The moonlight didn't really reach this part of the palace, it just sort of lingered at the edges. In the sunken courtyard, the shadows from the walls stretched long and thin, and the air felt sharp enough to make every breath sting.
Yerel was bare to the waist. His skin, pulled taut over a frame that was all lean, hungry muscle, glistened with a slick sheen of sweat that steamed in the night chill. Every time he pivoted, a plume of white vapor erupted from his lips, looking like the breath of a dragon. He wasn't just practicing. This wasn't the refined, ceremonial footwork taught by royal tutors to make a prince look pretty during a parade. This was something older. Something visceral.
