Arthur nodded. "I have chosen only to train you."
"Only me?"
Arthur chuckled, a deep and melodious sound. It might have been the first time I'd heard him laugh. "You don't seem pleased."
I shook my head and then immediately nodded, suddenly wishing the ground beneath my feet would open up and swallowme whole. "I am… overly pleased, my liege. And while I am very flattered, I don't know what I've done to deserve such a gift."
"You defeated a man not only twice your size." Then he took me in from head to toe. "Perhapsthriceyour size," he corrected himself with a small smile. "But your magic is formidable." He paused. "And, I admit, I am more than curious about your water magic. I wish to learn from you as much as you can learn from me."
Ah, so that was the reason he'd taken me under his wing—because he wanted to learn more about my power—the same magic that ran in the veins of the woman who had pulled his sword. I should have presumed as much.
As long as he hadn't bridged the fact that that woman was me and I was she, I was safe. At least, for the time being.
"From today forward, you’ll train directly under me,” he continued, reaching for one of the practice blades. “You showed creativity—in the Labyrinth and the Duel. Let’s see if that creativity carries over to your swordwork.”
He tossed the sword to me. I caught it by the hilt. While the sword was just as heavy as a regular blade, the edge was blunt, so one could strike without slicing flesh. Of course, it would still hurt, bruise, or crack ribs—but it was not as sharp as an actual sword.
We began to circle each other on the flagstones, our boots scraping against the stone in a familiar dance. A rhythm built quickly between us—strike, feint, adjust, retreat. My blade met his in a series of controlled clashes that rang out across the empty training grounds, echoing off the castle walls. Soon, my muscles burned with the effort of keeping pace with him, and sweat gathered beneath my tunic, dampening the fabric against my skin. My breathing grew labored, my arms trembling slightly with each parry.
Arthur, meanwhile, moved with the tireless precision of a man shaped by decades of war. His movements were economical and efficient, each strike calculated to test my defenses without overwhelming me entirely. There was no wasted motion in his footwork, no unnecessary flourish in his technique. He barely seemed to break a sweat, his breathing steady and controlled even as he pressed his advantage. Years of combat had honed him into something more machine than man when he held a blade—relentless, inexorable, utterly focused.
“Again,” he ordered. “Redirect—don’t block.”
I adjusted my stance, feeling the familiar burn in my calves as I pivoted on the balls of my feet.
“You oppose force with force. Unlearn that.”
I nodded as his blade swept toward my shoulder in a controlled arc, the practice steel catching the light as it descended. Instead of meeting it head-on with my own weapon, I forced myself to follow his instruction and allowed the momentum of his strike to guide my movement, stepping into the flow of his attack rather than clashing against it. My sword moved fluidly, redirecting his blade's path rather than stopping it cold, the impact traveling through my arms as gentle pressure instead of the bone-jarring shock I'd grown accustomed to.
“Better,” he said, a flicker of approval in his tone. "But like this." Then he stepped forward, wrapped his hand around mine, and guided the motion. The warmth of his skin sent a jolt through me—a current that raced from my hand to somewhere deeper. I held my breath, painfully aware of how close he stood, of the scent of leather and steel and sun-warmed stone.
Control yourself.
"You've heard of the rebellion," Arthur said as he stepped back from me, retrieving his sword once more. Not a question—a statement delivered with the casual certainty of a king who already knew the answer.
My stomach dropped for the second time in the last hour. And, of course, I understood immediately what he was doing—testing me. Pushing to see how much I knew, how I'd react.
"Yes, I have heard of the rebellion, Your Majesty." I kept my tone neutral, curious. Nothing more.
His eyes tracked my expression. "The incidents have taken place mostly in the north."
"Yes," I answered.
"I noticed Lord Carlisle inviting you to his table. At the feast after the duel."
There it was. The real reason for this conversation.
"He did, sire."
"Carlisle has been a thorn in my side for years." Arthur's voice hardened, each word carrying the weight of old wounds and fresh suspicions. "I don't trust the man. His loyalty shifts like sand beneath the tides."
I said nothing, waiting, allowing him to fill the silence.
"The North has always been troublesome," he continued, circling me slowly, his practice blade resting against his shoulder. "They cling to old grievances, old ways. They see rebellion as their birthright rather than treason."
My jaw tightened slightly—an instinctive reaction I couldn't quite suppress. He was talking about my home, the people I'd grown up among. People who had legitimate reasons to distrust a king who'd outlawed the magic that ran through their blood.
"There may come a day," Arthur said, stopping directly in front of me. I forced myself to meet his eyes, to school my expression. I wasn't certain if I succeeded. Arthur stopped talking for a moment or two and just held my gaze.
