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The training sessions with Eldrion were starting to become a constant in her daily routine in the Nephrite court. Her new clothes hugged her form snugly, allowing for ease of movement and the freedom to stretch and leap without hindrance. Long hours were spent on balancing exercises, mobility, and endurance exercises. After the first training, she had really started to make an effort. If it was needed in Isluma for her to know how to defend herself physically—she would learn. Anthea often left these sessions tired, and frustrated. Over the weeks, despite the challenges, despite Eldrion’s uncompromising approach, and despite her initial reluctance, Anthea was growing stronger. She could feel it in the firmness of her muscles, the steadiness of her stance, and the confidence that was slowly, but surely, taking root within her?—
The warrior’s instructions on how to hold the weapon fell on deaf ears as Anthea wrestled with the idea of fighting. She was not a warrior, far from it—she had always been proud of solving her problems with words, not violence. Her mind had been her strength. She had thought she could utilize it more here too. Anthea had been invited to participate in the council meetings, mostly as a listener. The scholars gave updates on their progress—they were working day and night, trying to decipher the books she had daringly taken from the Cattleya court; they were working on finding ways to control a dragon. Every time she thought about the fire-breathing beasts, Anthea felt a twinge of shame; shame for her stupidity, for believing Endreth blindly: the dragons knowing a way for her to get home—it seemed laughable now.
The more time passed, the more the weight of her initial anger and resentment toward the youngest Crimson prince began to dissipate. The raw edges of her emotions had begun to smooth over. The pain was less sharp now, replaced more by a dull ache of confusion and longing. Anthea wanted to confront him, to demand answers, to understand the why of it all?—
Her wooden weapon hung limply in her hand as she watched the elven warrior demonstrate the proper grip.
“Eldrion, do you really think this is going to help?” she finally asked, looking at the elf. “Even if I learn to swing this thing properly, who am I going to take down? A child? An elderly person?”
Eldrion’s lips twitched, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “It is not about taking someone down,” he replied, fixing her hold on the handle. “It is about giving you a fighting chance, should it ever come to that. It is about you not being helpless.”
As much as she wanted to argue, Anthea found herself nodding. Despite her discomfort, her uncertainty, she understood in a world like Isluma, she needed every advantage she could get.
“I will first show you some steps, and then you will try to mimic those.”
“Okay.”
Eldrion’s form was flawless, every movement seemed measured, like water flowing seamlessly through crevices. Anthea couldn’t help but let her eyes roam over her instructor. From his broad shoulders to the way his sculptured arms extended effortlessly, wielding the sword as though it was an extension of himself. A sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. There’s no way she could ever match that. A sudden idea struck her, and without giving herself time to overthink, she stepped close to him, pressing her back firmly against his chest.
“Anthea?” Eldrion tensed against her but remained still.
Anthea extended her training sword forward. “Do the same,” she instructed, her voice slightly shaky. The warmth of his body was unnerving, and she could feel the rhythm of his heart against her back, a tempo that increased ever so slightly.
There was a momentary pause before Eldrion slowly extended his sword, positioning it parallel to hers. His blade extended far beyond hers.
“See this?” she asked. “In a situation where I need to defend myself with a sword, against someone like you, I’m immediately at a disadvantage. For someone my size, maybe a different weapon or strategy would be more effective.”
The slow, thoughtful way Eldrion looked at her brought a faint flush to her cheeks. She felt his warmth against her back. Smelled the pine and leather that seemed to cling to him. As his fingers traced the length of her arm, Anthea felt a jolt of unexpected warmth seep through her skin—it was an oddly intimate touch, one that was broken when he moved away, his fingers slipping off her arm.
“You make a valid argument,” he admitted, his voice a low rumble. “A dagger, perhaps? It is true that a sword requires a certain level of strength and dexterity to wield effectively. A dagger, while smaller, offers less reach, but it could be more suited to your . . . style.” The way he said it was almost delicate, as if trying not to offend her. In a bid to shake off the nervous energy coursing through her, Anthea shot him a playful smile.
“My style? You mean, not a warrior at all and would probably drop a sword if someone as much as sneezed at me?”
A chuckle, deep and resonant, escaped him. She couldn’t help but grin wider, momentarily taken aback. She realized, with some surprise, she quite liked the sound. She wanted to hear it again.
“I see you are not lacking in self-awareness.” A half-smile still played on his lips. “Alright. A dagger it is, then.”
Then he began to teach her the art of the dagger, his instructions were clear and precise, showing her the various ways to grip, how to thrust and parry, and where to aim to cause the most damage. He was patient with her questions—giving explanations when needed and demonstrating more than once when she asked.
The weapon felt good in her hand: it was smaller, less intimidating than the sword, and yet there was a deadly efficiency to it she couldn’t deny.
The elf also showed her several options where she could hide the dagger. Anthea kept her eyes on the planks and ropes above when he helped her strap a leather harness to her thigh—she didn’t want him to see the blush forming on her cheeks as he kneeled before her, buckling the straps. Then, he had her practice drawing the dagger from each location—from her thigh, boot, inside of her forearm. Her movements were clumsy and unsure at first. But as the days wore on, she found herself growing more confident, her draws quicker and more seamless.
Anthea couldn’t help but marvel every time she entered the Nephrite court’s library. The first time she had stepped into the room, she had to do a double take: dominating the center was an actual, living tree, its roots sprawling across the floor and climbing the bookshelves like intricate pieces of natural art. The tree’s oak-like leaves, tinted in a mesmerizing silvery green, rustled gently, forming a protective canopy over the room. She had learned later that the tree was a Quelix tree—an ancient sacred tree, said to hold the wisdom of the world in its roots and leaves. Anthea still couldn’t believe there was a huge tree inside the second level of the castle. She had asked where the roots got their nutrition from Beldor, but he had only smirked and said magic.
Anthea settled herself next to Kaelan, the warrior from the Crimson court. He had arrived a week ago. They hadn’t had many opportunities to talk yet. So she made sure to sit next to him. She had questions.
Across the room, Fyralin, Vaelor and Galodir stood next to a high window, engrossed in a conversation with Eldrion.
“The library is something, isn’t it?” Kaelan said, following her gaze to the tree.
“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” Anthea admitted. “How’s Endreth?” The words were out before she could think twice about asking.
Kaelan looked at her, his blue eyes softening in a way that made her uncomfortable. She didn’t want his sympathy; she wanted answers. “Endreth is keeping busy with his duties,” he said gently. “He sent me here to keep an eye on things and to ensure your safety.”
“I see,” was all Anthea said, turning her eyes back to the table, her fingers drumming a restless pattern on its surface. She swallowed—the lump in her throat seemed to have taken a permanent residence there. Anthea glanced at the elven warrior again. He kept his eyes on her. It seemed he wanted to say something more?—
The door creaked open and Beldor walked in with Elodir. Behind them trailed two weary-looking elves, their clothing spattered with mud, worn from use, and their boots were caked with dirt.
