Arwen.
With a single thought, and my grip tightens. I adjust, reset my stance, and drive the blade forward again, harder than necessary. The dummy absorbs the force; my composure does not.
She is defiant in a way that should irritate me. It does. And yet… it does not stop there.
She refuses to bow—to authority, to expectation, to me. Especially to me.
I exhale through my nose, controlled, measured, as the bond surges beneath my skin. Magic hums through my veins in an undignified rush, betraying me with every pulse. If my father sensed it, if the council suspected even a fraction, the consequences would be catastrophic.
Unacceptable.
I strike again, each movement precise, practiced. But precision cannot erase memory.
Her shaking hands. Her damp skin against mine. The way she fit into my arms as though she belonged there—an absurd, impossible notion I have no right entertaining.
It was a lapse. A momentary breach. Nothing more.
And yet… my body recalls her with a loyalty it should not possess.
Steadying my posture, I square my shoulders, jaw firm. This will not rule me. Pride does not waver. House Willshire does not fracture.
But the bond—traitorous thing—does not care for lineage or legacy. It thrums with every breath, every beat of magic, whispering her name with a certainty I cannot allow:
Arwen.
And no amount of discipline seems capableof silencing it.
I drive into the next stance too sharply. The impact jars up my arm, and the blade slips, skittering across the mat as it tumbles away from me.
Careless. Disappointing.
I should be better. Picking up my blade, I inhale once, slow, disciplined.
But the damage is done.
My chest tightens, breath catching in a way I refuse to acknowledge. Her presence threads through my ribs anyway—unwelcome, persistent—pulling at every carefully arranged piece of me until the entire structure threatens to tilt.
Letting out a growl, I retreat three steps, pivot and thrust. Precision? Forget it. The movement reflects my chaos.
I have been captivated by her since I first saw her in the Councilor’s office back home, where she stood her ground against those who could have easily crushed her Pride with a word. I remember exactly how she looked that day — every hair, every move and the way she refused to bow.
I put her on a pedestal before I even knew why.
And now, this bond in my chest amplifies everything. Rage, desire, frustration—it all boils within me. I should hate it.
Strike.
I should hate her.
Strike.
She’s a sinless, she’s outside my faction, she’s the impossible.
Strike. Strike. Strike!
But I can’t.
I let the sword fall from my hand again as the bond yanks at me, twisting my gut as if my stomach itself is rebelling. Each strike I throw into the air, each parry I counter, is a scream I cannot voice.
