Shit, now he was fixating on Ella when training and discipline should have ruled his thoughts. She was a storm battering at his stronghold, and storms were meant to be weathered, not worshipped.
Regardless, Maeren was wrong. All morning his mind had been consumed by the Claiming, with every possible outcome running through him like a drumbeat he couldn't silence. He woke up well before the sun, donned his training leathers, and slipped out of his room without Ella even moving an inch, all to carve out some extra preparation. He had the utmost respect for the ritual, and what his kingdom gained from it.
The rite loomed over every warrior, and the solstice that followed thirteen full years of service was no accident. Whether a warrior stood at twenty-eight or at thirty-three, it was themoment where loyalty met power and the realm chose whether to claim them. For Jakobav, it would draw attention as all royal rites did, but this one felt heavier. Reports stacked higher every day, whispers of power bending in ways it never had, the Veil twitching like a nerve ready to snap.
Many would show up just hoping to see the King of Dravaryn, his absence felt increasingly by the day.His father had warned him years ago of the signs of Threadshifting, back when it wasn’t happening so quickly. Ella had spoken that word in a whisper as though she’d discovered something forbidden, not realizing he already carried the knowledge like a scar that wouldn’t heal.
Gods, maybe he should stop watching her sleep, letting her spill secrets into the dark like prayers. But he knew there would be no stopping.
And Threadshifting was not the only truth she’d let slip.
He’d known about it for some time, and the First Guard had done everything in their power to keep the kingdom from suffering. Yet the Claiming was no ceremonial pageant. If he failed, he would gain nothing—no new ability, no strength to wield against what bled through the breaches—and Dravaryn would not stand behind an heir who faltered at the rite that defined them. They were already fighting to survive the cracks in the Veil. Without the power they expected him to claim, Threadshifting would spread like a sickness until Dravaryn itself cracked open.
No fucking pressure.
“Eyes up,” Maeren barked, her voice cracking across the ring like a whip in the cold.
Their rhythm resumed, blades colliding in a relentless cadence that sent a deep vibration through his arm and reverberated across the frost-hardened stone. Strike followed strike, the tempo ingrained into him by years of training, until she feinted left and drove the hilt hard into his ribs. The impactsurged through him like a bruise spreading outward, raw and punishing, and his control faltered.
Something inside him slipped, and the frost along the ring cracked like shattered glass, hairline fractures webbing outward from his boots. The courtyard wall, veined with obsidian, shuddered as though it had a pulse of its own, dark veins twitching in time with his heartbeat.
Maeren stilled. Her eyes, bright and unblinking, swept over the fractures, catching every tremor. “Jake,” she said quietly, and there was no humor in it. “This is getting worse.”
Her mouth pressed thin. “Listen to me.” She stepped forward, blade lowered now, voice flat but edged with an urgency he didn’t like. “You’re not the only one losing control. Half the kingdom is misfiring, and the High Vexari has already held two services in the Cathedral. She’s preaching that the land is warning us. That the Veil is thinning. That Dravaryn must prepare.”
Jakobav’s jaw locked. “The High Vexari enjoys the sound of her own prophecy.”
“She enjoys influence,” Maeren shot back. “And she’s using it. People are scared. They look to her because they haven’t heard a word from you or your father.”
That was a low blow and he had a feeling she knew it.
Her gaze flicked to the cracks, still visible beneath the settling frost. “You will need to meet with her soon.”
“I do not answer to the Cathedral.”
“No, you answer to the kingdom,” she said, tone like flint striking. “And they need to hear from you, not from a woman stirring panic with every sermon.”
A long exhale bled from him, white in the cold air.
Maeren lifted her sword again, not with challenge, but with resolve. “Now,” she said. “Again.”
He reined it in with effort, forcing the hum to collapse back into silence. Frost resettled across the ring, shards catching the light like coal dust at his feet. He rolled his shoulder as though the motion alone could erase what had just surged from him. “Again.”
Her mouth pressed thin, the humor gone from it. She stepped forward without a grin, blade lifted, her voice flat. “You need to get ahead of it.”
“I am ahead of it.”
“Then stop cracking the yard.”
“Press,” he growled, the word both command and warning, as much need as challenge.
Their blades blurred together, faster and harder, until for a fleeting instant it felt as it once had: clean, focused, every strike a note in the rhythm of battle that steadied his pulse. But then Ella’s face rose unbidden, and his grip faltered.
Maeren’s blade slid past his guard and lifted beneath his chin, the point steady. “Dead again,” she said, lower now, though her eyes did not soften with it.
He shoved her weapon aside and stalked toward the rope line, chest tight with the failure.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Maeren asked, her voice even, unreadable.
