She wasn’t sleeping again.

With Dresmond on the horizon and her failed escapades with the king still fresh in her mind, Regan was agitated—as if the full moon were upon them. She busied herself by making all the necessary preparations for her journey to Dresmond. She couldn’t make any mistakes. Lorendale had been a stumble, one that had cost her access to her fire, for the time being. Regan felt its absence like a cold ache in her heart.

And so, to soothe the ache, Regan had a few choices. She chose the healthiest one: training.

Regan made her way to the training courtyard to find it occupied. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t realize that was the case until she was almost upon him. When she did, Regan stumbled to a stop as Isaac took a deep gulp from his water bottle.

Regan stopped, mouth dropping open for a moment before she snapped it shut again.

“Oh, sorry, I was just…” Regan indicated to the dummy…and realized its condition. She raised an eyebrow, looking back from the dummy to the man before her as she started to put two and two together. The Coheedsman. Of course.

Regan, like any good Nevermerean witch, was skeptical of foreigners. She treated them with a healthy caution befitting of their status. Coheedsmen were dangerous. Outsiders. Unpolished and unpredictable. But her reaction to Isaac was based on something entirely different. For a moment, it was as if Regan was back at the ball—hearing the screams, smelling the fear that had filled her hellhound senses. The chaos swirled around her as Octavius turned and within it all…

“It’s you,” Regan said, the words dropping dumbly out of her mouth, “I know you.” The words sat halfway between a question and a statement.

Regan had never been bowed to in her life. Immediately her cheeks flushed, whether it was embarrassment or something else it was difficult to say. She laughed back, though uneasily as she looked from the ground to the dummy—literally anywhere but the bouncing brows of the Coheedsman.

“Uh, um, yeah. I don’t think so, no.” After a moment she looked back, sticking out her hand as if he were a dog that might bite. “Regan. Just…yeah, Regan.”

When Regan shook his hand she squeezed, as if to test his grip, the fabled strength and power of the Coheedsmen. Their power was nothing compared to witchcraft (or so she believed), but she was curious nonetheless. When he held out his arms as an offering, she smirked, looking him up and down. The hesitance started to fade, the beast in her skin rising at the challenge. Sparring with other soldiers had become too risky since the ball. She didn’t need questions about her strength, but the charcoal in her eyes as she tried to keep the wolf contained.

But perhaps the Coheedsman would be a good balance. After all, she doubted someone who should be grateful to be there would ask too many questions. And if he had the strength to match her…

“Let’s see what you’ve got then.” Regan dropped her stuff to the ground and started to roll up her sleeves. “No weapons, no magic. If that works for you.”

Regan also readied herself, sizing up her opponent, similarly limbering her stance and raising her hands. Isaac was right to wait, as Regan was impulsive enough that she seldom waited when it came to making the first move. She went for a fake out and then an attempt for an underhanded blow to his ribs.

Regan’s blow hit, and it was clear from the way her fist connected with his flesh that Isaac was nothing but muscle. She couldn’t tell whether he’d intentionally let her make contact or if he’d not been fast enough to block it. Maybe these Coheedsmen were not all they were cracked up to be…or maybe he was just toying with her.

When Isacc swung, Regan tilted her body to the side, enough to prevent herself from taking the full brunt of the blow but still allowing it to make contact. Yes, he was strong. Given the effort in the swing, the output was far more than she’d expected.

Regan didn’t pause. She started to move toward him, exchanging blows that favored speed and accuracy over strength — something that she did not typically do. They were designed to test rather than to make contact. To assess her opponent before making bolder moves.

Regan was no dancer, but perhaps the joy she felt was similar to what noble ladies felt when treading the dancefloor. For what was this but a dance? Exchanging blows that were not meant to inflict damage but rather to test skill. When Isaac moved to swipe her leg, Regan would counterbalance her upset stability by dropping low so that his fist swung at the air over her head. She’d then rise back up to punch at his shoulder…using more force this time. Force that Isaac would recognize as more powerful than that of the average Nevermerean soldier.