There were certain mornings Raziel especially loved. Mornings of his day off in the week, where he could sleep in as much he wished. Mornings spent at Hawthorn Manor, where he could have breakfast with his family. And mornings scheduled for training, where he could have an absolute blast pummeling to a pulp the unfortunate knight fated to be his sparring partner.

The weather was perfect for a brawl—cool and cloudy with the sun hidden behind thick grey fluff. The castle training grounds stretched about two acres, besieged by stone walls. The grass had been trodden to smithers by daily combat, leaving a few dry patches amidst dirt and stones. Currently, it hosted two pairs of fighters locked in sword fights, each within a respective sector.

Sir Ephraim Hawke stood in an unoccupied sector. His strength and speed as a knight of the Prince's lance was expected, but his Blessed Gift was truly unique. Raziel approached him calmly, one hand on his shoulder as he rolled and stretched it.

Both were dressed in their black training gear, with minimal armour on the knees and forearms. The jotegra fabric was an excellent fit for soldiers such as them. It was light yet durable, highly resistant to abrasion. It was easy on the eyes, and soothing to the skin. Even when it was made to cling to each muscle, it still made movements easy and fluid.

Their eyes were vigilant, assessing each other in a means to read the other's first move. Ephraim's hand hovered above the hilt of his sword, snuggly sheathed at his side, causing Raziel to think he intended to draw it.

The distance between them wasn't suitable—Ephraim would need to be incredibly fast if he wished to slit his throat. A slow teasing smile spread across Raziel's face at the thought of Ephraim actually beheading him—impossible—and lowered his hand. He nodded upwards to his opponent, goading him.

Ephraim lunged. Raziel's eyes caught the lack of a blade just in time to block his fist with crossed forearms, his vambraces producing a whacking sound from the force. Ephraim curved his other fist downwards, aiming for his. Raziel opened his guard and stepped back, using both hands to grab Ephraim's fists and twist.

The sickening crunch caused a satisfied grin to bloom on Raziel's face. Ephraim tore from his grip and backed away, waving off his dislocated wrists.

He winced, showing only a sliver of pain. He attacked again almost immediately with a roundhouse kick to the face. The sole of his boot barely brushed Raziel's nose as he tipped his head back. The successive kick had him stepping further away.

Ephraim's fist aimed for his jaw, failing to deliver with Raziel's quick dip and instant palm-strike to his ribs. With his other hand, Raziel grabbed Ephraim's outstretched forearm and spun, lifting the knight off his feet and slamming him onto his back.

Ephraim groaned from the impact, but just as his dislocated wrists had recovered exceptionally fast, so did he. He bent his knees and kicked himself onto his feet. When he pivoted, it wasn't short blond hair and a stubble that Raziel saw.

Ephraim's hair had changed to light brown and grown to his shoulders. A thick brown beard sported his jaw in place of the stubble. His eyes were smaller and droopy. His physique was about the same, save for wider shoulders and a shorter height. He'd aged about ten years.

Ephraim's new appearance sent a wave of thrill down Raziel's spine, making his gloved fingertips itch in anticipation for the upcoming fight.

"So you've added Captain Keigan to your collection," Raziel noted, his eyes gleaming dangerously. "That's quite the big fish you've caught, Sir Ephraim."

"All the better to use against you," Ephraim said in Keigan's drab, almost emotionless drawl, shuffling back and putting distance between them.

He pushed his hands in front of him, and a gargantuan ball of bright orange flames shot from his palms, headed straight for Raziel.

Raziel smiled, lifting his arm to the sky, then bringing it down in a stiff slash. The movement had the same effect as a sword—except one made of sharpened, precise and forceful wind. The gust of wind split the ball right in the middle, and with a flutter of his fingers, the wind spread, snuffing out the flames.

It was an impressive display of fire power, Raziel mused, but it wasn't as powerful as Keigan's.

Ephraim was on the move already, dashing towards Raziel with clenched fists. Still in Keigan's form, he drew his elbow back, and bright orange flames wrapped around his fist.

Raziel grinned manically, his blood pumping in anticipation of taking the punch head on . he wanted to feel just how hot it was; to gauge how good Ephraim's replication technique was.

But then...

"Who's Claire?"

The voice that rudely intruded his mind, coupled with the question it asked, had Raziel's muscles and brain freezing for a moment. That moment sufficed for Ephraim, who, changing tactics, extinguished his flame and drew his sword in the same breath. He swung at Raziel's face with lethal speed, not sparing any chances.

Raziel's reflexes kicked in a tad too late. His leaning back was insufficient to completely dodge the attack. The tip of the sword sliced across his cheek, narrowly missing his eye and curving against the bridge of his nose.

His face stung and wetted with blood, and he winced—not because of the pain, but because of the annoying smirk on his opponent's face.

Cursing, Raziel spun on his heel, rousing a strong gust of wind that picked up the dust and stones. With a swing of his arm, he directed the whirlwind at Ephraim, who was swept off his feet and whipped about in the vortex like a leaf in a tornado. Raziel enclosed his palm in a tight fist and swung it down. The motion commanded the whirlwind to cease and bring down Ephraim, slamming him hard into the ground.

Fury hot as red coals burned through Raziel's veins. He breathed in deeply, channeling his anger into his diaphragm .

"Sage!" he bellowed, his voice bouncing off every air molecule in the grounds.

On a bench nearby sat two of his knights, one of them trying to flirt with the other. The latter paid no heed to the moron beside her, more interested in stuffing her face with cherries while she watched the brawl.

Raziel's shout made the flirtatious knight jolt.

"Did you get distracted, Captain?" Rodney shouted. "You're looking a little red there!"

Raziel glared at Rodney, who smiled brightly at him. Rodney slung his arm over his bench mate, Dame Franchesca's shoulder, only for her to slap it off immediately. She popped another cherry in her mouth.

Raziel's irritated gaze flitted all over the training rounds, but saw no sign of the bastard who had interrupted his match.

"Sage!" he boomed again.

"No need to yell. I can hear you loud and clear," the voice stated calmly. "Now, tell me, who is Claire? To think the sound of her name nearly cost you an eye. She must be important. Not to mention how she's all you've been thinking about lately."

Raziel scoffed. His face no longer hurt, meaning the gash must have healed up. He wiped the blood off, his face free good as new. "That much damage cannot be inflicted upon me. And is my mind your playground for you to rummage through it all the damn time?"

"Yes."

"Ugly arsehole."

Sage's voice was filled with mirth. "You know you're the only one I get to do this with. It's our bonding time, brother-mine. Now tell me about your latest infatuation."

"You wish to have this conversation amidst battle?"

"Will you be too distracted for it?"

"The very idea is laughable."

Ephraim fumbled to his feet and sheathed his sword. His form changed once more. Light brown hair turned raven black—shorter but still falling around his face. Droopy brown eyes turned to sharp azure eyes, the beard retracting to a clean-shaven jaw.

The new appearance made Raziel's skin crawl, but not from fear. From intrigue, thrill and delight.

It was like looking in a bloody mirror.

"You're full of surprises today, Sir Ephraim," Raziel commended. "I must say I've always wondered how it would feel to fight myself. I'm glad for this rather pleasant opportunity."

Ephraim said nothing, a smirk crossing his lips. He stretched his hands out towards Raziel.

Raziel raised his guard, mentally calculating and preparing for any wind attack he might throw. None came. Instead, from the peripheral of both sides, Raziel saw stones hurtling towards him with incredible speed. He jumped out of the way, causing the melon-sized rocks to clank against each other. Raziel counted about five of them, each of them being guided towards him from different directions by Ephraim's hand.

Raziel's dodged with lithe motions, but he was particularly perturbed by their movements. They were too precise; too fluid to be guided by wind.

The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. Ephraim hovered above him, by no aid of air or wings. He flew straight for him, both fists taking aim.

To match the speed, Raziel concentrated his own power beneath his feet, jumping and using the force of wind to propel him away from his opponent. At a safe distance, he steeled his feet to the ground and pinned Ephraim with a curious gaze. The latter levitated in the air with his arms folded his blue eyes a reflection of Raziel's gaze.

"Interesting that you would confuse your twin for yourself," Ephraim said in a perfect replica of Raziel's voice, his tone dripping with amusement. "Even you can't tell yourselves a part."

"Me and him look nothing alike," Raziel averred.

"You and I look exactly like."

"Shut up, Sage," Raziel growled.

"Second time I've caught you off guard, Captain," Ephraim proclaimed, descending slowly until his feet touched the ground. "I wonder if I might actually put you down today."

"Do not get cocky, Sir Ephraim," said Raziel. "If you're to copy everything, do it properly. Those are my eyes, not Sage's."

"Can I see the handkerchief she gave you?"

Raziel closed his eyes, taking a breath to calm his rising annoyance. "Sage..." he warned.

"You seem to like it a lot despite its horrible stitches. What is she, a seamstress?"

"I only need to have a close resemblance to harness a Blessed Gift." As Ephraim spoke, his voice changed. It grew softer and feminine, yet husky and rough around the edge. "You know that, Captain."

When Raziel opened his eyes, a new appearance stood before him. Long, wavy, blonde tresses falling over thick, toned arms and a small bosom. Piercing brown eyes underneath bushy eyebrows, freckles over a sharp nose, a slightly cleft chin and thin lips upturned in a fierce scowl.

This appearance impressed Raziel the most. "I see you've finally moved past your reluctance to borrowing the female body."

He glanced at the bench, where the basis for Ephraim's replica sat with Rodney. Dame Franchesca had stopped eating, her eyes wide and lips parted as she regarded Ephraim's replication of her.

"I had to, if I wished to get stronger," Ephraim said, stretching his replica's thick neck. He cracked the knuckles, the muscles along the arms rippling.

"Raziel, I asked you a question," Sage prodded as Ephraim ran towards him.

Raziel sighed, bending his knees to prepare for the attack. "She's an apprentice. You won't guess whose."

He guarded with his forearms against Ephraim's punch. The blow reverberated past his vambraces, crackling pain in his arms and causing him to slide back some metres. It was almost like Dame Franchesca's brute strength.

Almost.

"Mel!" Sage's voice exclaimed in surprise, having read Raziel's mind. "She works with Mother?"

Ephraim delivered blow after blow onto Raziel. Each punch felt like getting whacked by a sack full of bricks, so he focused on dodging them.

"It seems so," Raziel replied Sage.

With a swift wave of his palm, he sent a precise gust of wind Ephraim's way. It whacked the replica in the face the same way a slap would. Smirking, Raziel waved his palm about, each flick slapping the replica's face left and right. His last wave was particularly harsh, causing the replica's head to whip to the side and her feet to stumble.

Finally, Raziel drew his sword.

"What do you think, Dame Franchesca?" he called, pointing his sword at Ephraim, who spat out some blood and shot him a hot glare.

Raziel replied with a small smile and wink, then cocked his head to the bench. "Does the replica live up to your name?" he asked the lady knight.

"Could use some more power!" Rodney replied instead, shrugging. "Fran's a lot more monstrous!"

That earned him a thwack on the back of his head from Franchesca, powerful enough to hurtle Rodney off the bench so he face-planted on the ground.

She then made a gesture with a hand towards Raziel; one that meant, "It's lacking."

Raziel smirked. When he turned back to Ephraim, he'd returned to his original form. His replicas were commendable indeed, but not quite refined. They weren't bound to last.

Ephraim drew his sword, determination settling on his features.

"So when do I meet her?"

Raziel cursed the brief seize of his muscles when Sage raised the conversation again. He was able to block Ephraim's attack with his own sword, but didn't like how easily his mind drifted when it came to her.

The fly that—as Sage correctly stated—had been on his mind since he last saw her several days ago. Sure, he was occupied with other duties, but somehow, somewhere, she slipped through and found a space amidst it all.

Not long after they had lain down and watched the sky, her cousin had found her. When she introduced him to her as Bartholomew, he had not refuted it. It had been the perfect opportunity to clear up all the misunderstandings, but he had chosen not to take it.

Perhaps it was because once he revealed his true identity, everything would change. She wouldn't look at him the same way—directly into his eyes with warmth and light. She wouldn't chat so freely with him nor express herself; whether it was sharing her happiness or pain. She wouldn't be friends with him anymore, cutting ties with him as she'd done with Marcus.

Swords clashed as Raziel and Ephraim moved back and forth in the dance of battle, each looking for an opening .

"How am I supposed to know that when I myself do not know when...if I'll meet her again?" Raziel thought in reply to Sage's question.

"We simply visit where she works. Thorne."

Raziel gritted his teeth. "Don't you dare."

He dodged a strike to his head.

"Why not?" Sage's voice asked.

"She doesn't know who I am," Raziel thought in reply. "She thinks I'm a low-class servant named Bartholomew who works at Grayson manor."

"Bartholomew was your persona for that smuggling mission. Is that when you met her?"

Raziel's blows become faster and insistent, not giving his opponent a chance to go on the offence. In his original form, Ephraim only had the core strength of a knight of the Order of the Griffin. Bored of the fight, Raziel disarmed him in a few seconds and brought the tip of his sword beneath his chin.

"Yes, and I'd like it to stay that way," Raziel thought, his gaze trained on a wide-eyed Ephraim.

Gulping, Ephraim breathed, "I yield."

Raziel lowered his sword, and the colour returned to his opponent's face.

An eagle called in the distance, directing his attention skywards. The brown bird circled the sky, flapping its wings as it descended towards the training ground.

Sheathing his sword, Raziel extended his arm, providing a bridge for the eagle to land on. He picked the cylindrical wooden container off its back, and the eagle flew off into the sky.

He emptied the container, a scroll of parchment tied with string falling onto his palm. As he read the letter, his expression grew grim from the news he'd long waited to hear.

Abram Boher was awake.

Author's whine:

Officially the toughest chapter I've had to write in this book!