Page 10

A shadow fell over the page, blocking the candlelight.

I didn’t reach for my blade. The scent of cedar cut through the stale dust of the archives a second before a hand dropped onto the back of my chair.

“You’re going to burn your eyes out before the sun rises, Taur,” Dax murmured, his rough voice carrying an easy warmth that instantly loosened the knot in my shoulders.

I closed the heavy text with a soft thud, turning my head to look up at him. Dax looked exactly as he had when we were children sneaking through the lower orchards of Ulfadell—broad-shouldered, square-jawed, with a mop of unruly brown hair and a crooked grin that usually meant he was about to get us both into trouble. But beneath the easy demeanor, the dark leathers of the Black Guard fit his frame with a sharp precision. He had arrived with the vanguard transfers only yesterday, a second lieutenant moving from the eastern borders, and seeing him here felt like a solid anchor in a room full of shadows.

“I’m keeping up with the reading,” I said, my voice dry as I leaned back against his hand. “Manem insists that if I don’t memorize the religious texts, I’ll offend the waters and turn into a puddle of silver sludge.”

“Commander Manem is a cheerful bastard,” Dax said, stepping around the table to drop heavily into the adjoining chair. He stretched his long legs out, his riding boots scuffed at the toes. “But he’s not entirely wrong. The court is already whispering about Dellyn’s little performance in the assembly hall. The high lords want you to fail, Taur. They’re taking bets on it.”

“Let them bet,” I muttered, my focus sharpening through the fatigue. “I’ve spent the last six months dodging mortal city buses and surviving on stale coffee. A few ancient serpents aren’t going to break my stride.”

Dax’s green eyes flicked over my face, lingering on the dark hollows beneath my lashes. The usual wolfish grin slowly left his lips. He didn’t offer a gentle word—he knew better than to hand soft things to someone backed into a corner. Instead, a muscle ticked in his jaw as he stood, offering me a hand.

“The sparring rings open at dawn,” Dax said, his tone shifting back to its usual casual rhythm. “Rhea is already down there setting up. The new transfers are eager to see if the half-breed princess can actually swing a blade, or if she’s just an expensive decoration.”

I ignored his hand, pushing myself up on my own two feet and stretching my aching muscles until my spine popped. “Then let’s go give them a demonstration.”

The outdoor training grounds were carved directly into the western cliffs of Enlathaes Kastali—a massive ring of pale granite suspended thousands of feet above the roaring surf. The morning air was brutal, sharp, freezing, and tasting of sea salt and wet stone. Unlike the guards on static duty who were encased in interlocking midnight armor, the vanguard transfers in the training rings wore nothing but dark, supple training leathers. No crests, no heavy plates, no shields. Just flesh, steel, and the law of the mats.

Rhea was already there when Dax and I cleared the archway.

She stood at the center of the ring, her dark hair pulled back into a severe braid, her posture perfectly rigid. As a first lieutenant under Caspian, she had earned her place within the inner circle, her leathers bearing the subtle silver triple-stripe of her rank. Her sapphire-scaled dragon, an Azurion sentinel named Vespera, was a distant, glittering speck circling the high mountain peaks above, but the residual magic of their bond hummed around Rhea like a static charge, making her dark eyes look sharp and predatory.

“You’re late, Princess,” Rhea called out, her voice snapping across the stone like a whip, though the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth told me she wasn’t actually angry.

“I was busy improving my mind, Lieutenant,” I shot back, stepping onto the granite ring as I pulled my copper-red waves back into a tight knot. “Dax claimed you needed someone to liven up the morning.”

“The morning is already plenty lively,” Rhea said, gesturing toward the far side of the ring where a line of six males stood in strict military symmetry. All of them wore the unadorned dark leathers of second lieutenants—the new vanguard transfers.

I swept a quick glance down the line, counting eight candidates in total including Dax. My training automatically analyzed their postures, their shifting weight, and the way their hands hovered near their training blades. Most looked at me with the standard, guarded curiosity of the court. But two males at the end of the line instantly drew my focus.

The first shifted his weight as I passed, stepping half an inch into my path to force me to adjust my stride. Kaelor Ashborne. He stood with his chin lifted high, his sharp features set in an arrogant sneer. His leathers were pristine, untouched by the dirt of the yard. Pinned to his collar was the rough, sun-bleached crest of Amnethys—the desolate southern border—but as his fingers rested flat against the pommel of his sword, a sharp mismatch struck my mind.

That grip was entirely wrong for a southern border guard. His hand placement was too fluid, too refined, carrying the thumb-first balance taught exclusively in the ancient, high-court houses of More Alora. He was wearing border colors over high-born muscle, and when his dark eyes locked onto mine, they held an open, hostile promise that he was waiting for the first opportunity to drive steel into my ribs.

I forced my eyes off him, dragging my gaze to the male at his left flank.

Mal Varyn.

My breath hitched in my throat—an instinct I immediately buried behind a wall of stone. He was exceptionally tall, his frame lean but packed with dense, corded muscle. Unlike Kaelor, he wasn’t sneering or posturing.

He was simply tracking me.

His deep hazel eyes, flecked with gold and dark green in the grey morning light, followed the rise and fall of my chest. He stood perfectly still, hands loosely clasped behind his back, pretending to listen to Rhea’s instructions while his focus absorbed every movement of my face. There was a quiet, intense gravity to his stillness that made my pulse stutter. He moved like an assassin wrapped in courtly manners, and every instinct in my gut warned me that he was far more dangerous than Kaelor could ever hope to be.

“We spar until first blood or submission,” Rhea announced, her voice cutting through my analysis. “No magic. No lethal strikes. Second Lieutenant Ashborne, you’re up first. Choose your opponent.”

Kaelor stepped out of the line immediately, his boots clicking sharply against the stone. He didn’t look at Dax or the other transfers. His dark eyes locked straight onto my face, his mouth curling into a small, venomous smile.

“I’ll take the princess,” Kaelor said, his tone dripping with a mocking reverence. “Let’s see if that mortal dirt she lived in taught her how to bleed.”

Aerynn’s warnings about the court’s vipers flashed through my mind. He’s trying to provoke you. He wants you to look sloppy.

“Try not to cry when I take your feet out, Lieutenant,” I said smoothly, stepping into the center of the ring and drawing the dull, heavy training blade from my hip.

We squared off, the cold sea wind whipping my hair across my cheeks. Kaelor didn’t wait for a signal. He lunged forward with terrifying speed, his steel slicing toward my left shoulder in a brutal downward cleave.