Amoura Skies was sick of Oliver Wildes.

Not only did he usually smell like garlic and witch hazel, but he also fought like a well-bred knight.

It was exhausting.

So when the red alarm above her door flared bright, she groaned and tossed the pillow under her head across the room.

And then she whirled into action; she tossed on her dark gray armour, fastened up her purple cloak, and strapped her sword to her hip. 

Tonight, she would surely kill him.

Liar, her brain spat back.

“Enough,” she hissed, tearing her door open and dashing out into the hall.

A soldier instantly fell into step beside her. “Cell aisle 308!”

“Madam is there!” She spat, seething.

Of course he would go for Madam, the most dangerous Advanced they had ever caught. It was just like him.

“I’ll take him from behind, gather more soldiers and intercept him from the front!”

The soldier frowned, “With all due respect, shouldn’t I⎯?”

“Go!” Amoura banked left, jogging down the hall, and immediately calling on her power. 

Oliver was tricky and often coated himself in garlic, so her ability to see smells would be hard to use. Usually, his scent color was yellow, but when he coated himself it was tinged a different color.

Amoura had learned the hard way that his scent shifted and changed, just like his fighting style.

Well. Amour had changed her style, too.

She shut her eyes, but the world didn’t go dark. It turned gray and several strands were laid out in front of her. Scents, all colored bright and shiny.

Amoura studied them, turning right into cell aisle 430. His was always pale after he masked his scent, so she chose the pink one to her left, dimmed by a yellow tang.

It had to be him.

She opened her eyes, the string now visible as she opened her eyes. She gave it a tug, smelling garlic and witch hazel.

She grinned.

Cell 308 was just around the corner now.

She skidded to a stop, inhaling sharply as she tugged her sword free from its sheath. She heard voices on the other side, both hurried.

One was deep and low. Unmistakably Oliver’s. As if to confirm her thoughts, the scent string grew taut.

“Oliver, good to see you.”

Amoura stepped around the corner, and the cloaked figure down the hall stiffened.

And then he turned.

Oliver was grinning as he faced her, a child cowering behind him. “Amoura, took you long enough.” His sword was soon in his hands, “you’re late for our dance lesson.”

Amoura felt a smile tug at her lips. Maybe he would live another day. 

She wasn’t sure.

Amoura cocked her head playfully, “I was busy sleeping.”

Oliver stalked closer, the round-faced child behind him forgotten for a moment. Amoura swore to herself the girl, Madam, wouldn’t get past the walls of The Hold. She was too dangerous. “It’s been a while.”

Amoura flipped her chin-length brown hair over her shoulder, “Not long enough.”

Oliver bowed only a few steps away from her. “Shall we?”

She didn’t hesitate; she struck.

It was an unrefined blow, only meant to draw him towards her, away from Madam. He blocked, just as sloppy. They were toying with each other.

Amoura blocked his return blow, angling her sword up to slide against his. She heard a frightened scream dimly in the background as sparks flew around them from metal hitting metal. She ignored it as she sliced her blade at his chin.

He ducked back, his hood falling back to reveal dark, freckled skin and black hair left unkempt around his face. 

His grin was wide as he dodged another blow, enjoying this far too much. It was a game for him.

It was for her, too.

He caught her sword this time, sliding closer to her so that the blades were almost pressing into both of them. “You’ve been practicing,” he remarked, green eyes shining.

“You haven’t.”

Amoura kicked him in the shin and he retreated, laughing and holding the injured area, “Fair enough.”

“Oliver!” Madam shrieked, pointing behind her.

Amoura blinked at the soldiers charging for them, then quickly lunged for her opponent. 

He sidestepped her, and whirled so that he caught the hand that held her sword. “Looks like we’ll have to cut this short.”

He spun her into him, holding the blade against her throat. Amoura didn’t react, but she was angry. At Oliver? Or at the too-soon arrival of her soldiers?

“I’m sorry, Ama,” he whispered in her ear, “this isn’t personal.”

The soldiers stopped short when they saw Amoura’s predicament, their eyes hard and wary. Oliver caught Madam’s hand and pushed him behind her as Amoura tried to decide what to do. The scent of garlic and witch hazel had her head spinning, though.

She settled for angling her head to look at him, “Take your hands off of me, if that is so, and surrender.”

He cracked a grin, the special one he kept just for her, “Save me a dance next time.”

He shoved her forward, sword hitting the floor behind her, and then turned and ran.

“After him!” Amoura snapped, taking up her sword and chasing him down the corridor, his scent tightening as she drew close.

Oliver glanced back, eyes glad, when he saw she was in pursuit.

But he wouldn’t stop. He never did.

And Amoura always let him get away, no matter what she swore to herself.

But she had to make it look real. Make them think she was trying.

“Oliver!” She shouted, sliding down a sharp bend and jerking at his cloak.

He stopped and spun, throwing a fist that passed the side of her head on purpose. She responded by tossing her own fist at his face, decking him in the chin.

He tumbled back, still holding a smile on his face, as she struck again with her sword. His own met her in kind. “We don’t have time to play, Ama.” He said cheekily.

She snarled. Make it look real. “Leave Madam! She’s dangerous, Oliver!”

He chuckled and, while she was reaching for the girl, kicked her legs out from under her.

Amoura nearly hit the floor, but he caught her in a dip. 

Her breath came heavy as he lowered his face near hers, “Tomorrow.” He promised, “save me a dance.”

Amoura’s smile almost fell into place. But she heard her soldiers, and made her lips thin. That didn’t stop her from saying something, though. “Don’t be late.”

He winked and dropped her just as the soldiers rounded the curve. She made a show of gasping, though some of it was real; the wind was knocked from her as her back hit the floor.

“Commander!” A soldier dropped down next to her, assessing.

“I’m fine!” Amoura snapped, “go! Get him!”

But she knew he was already gone. Madam’s Advanced power of teleportation must have kicked in.

Amoura couldn’t pretend she wasn’t glad, but she pasted fury on her face as she got up and grabbed her sword. 

“He’ll be back tomorrow, for the others,” a soldier said.

“I know,” Amoura snapped, “lock it down! Now! And set up more guards. Competent ones, this time!”

The soldiers ran to do her bidding as she stared at where Oliver had once been.

He was gone. Good.

Because Amoura always lied to herself about Oliver; she didn’t hate him.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about him.

Save me a dance.

Amoura didn’t even know why he bothered asking.

He knew she always would.