Lord Toren exhales sharply. “I did not come to rest.”
Beside him, Evelyne’s lips curve into a well-practiced smile, her voice smooth as she interjects. “But we’ll accept, of course. The journey wasn’t a short one.” Calculated—not to undermine her brother, but to temper him.
Toren huffs but nods once. “Very well. But we expect answers, Warlord. And soon.”
The exchange is brief, but the tension lingers. Theirattendants step forward, leading them toward the guest quarters.
Lyra tilts her head, eyes tracking Lady Evelyne’s last glance over her shoulder—straight at Thane. “Is it just me, or does she look like she’s picking out curtains for their future home?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, stifling a laugh. Keep your face neutral, I remind myself. The last thing I need is Thane catching me laughing.
Fenric smirks. “She’s got good taste, I’ll give her that.”
Lyra huffs. “Oh, sure. A Warlord for a husband, an outpost for a honeymoon—what more could a girl want?”
Taila mutters from behind, “She looked at him like he was already gift-wrapped.”
I don’t turn my head, but my voice is cool. “Shame she’ll be the one getting cut on the ribbon.”
Darius exhales. “You lot are going to get us all killed.”
Before Lyra can retort, Captain Elaris clears his throat—a sharp, deliberate cut through the noise. We all go still. I glance up just in time to catch the icy look he throws our way, his expression cold enough to make the summer air feel a little less warm.
Lyra barely blinks. She straightens, adjusting her stance into the picture of discipline.
Afternoon sun filters through the high windows, casting long streaks across the mats. Hours have passed since the noble party’s arrival, but inside, the air still hums with motion—the clash of steel, the rhythmic scuff of boots against the mats, the occasional sharp command from an officer correcting form.
Every mat in the hall is occupied. Pairs of warriors spar, their movements fluid, disciplined, controlled. I flow through eachstrike, block, and counter, my blade a blur as I engage Taila. Fast. Precise. Always watching for an opening. I match her pace in a sharp, rhythmic dance.
On a neighboring mat, Lyra fights with her usual mix of skill and irreverence—dodging a strike with a grin, then landing a light tap to Darius’s ribs just to make a point. She laughs as he scowls, never missing a chance to talk while she moves.
Fenric is sparring with another warrior from Air Clan a few mats over—taller, quicker, his movements almost too graceful to be real. I think his name is Kieran. It’s interesting, watching them. They’re cut from the same cloth, but wear it differently. Fenric fights like a blade tucked in a sleeve—efficient, quiet, lethal. Kieran moves like a gust breaking through open doors—fluid, showy, and impossible to pin down.
The hall buzzes with energy—not just a training ground, but a battleground where skill is tested and reputation earned.
Then, a shift. A momentary lull, so slight it almost goes unnoticed. A few heads turn.
I parry Taila’s next strike, twisting away just enough to take a quick look.
Thane steps into the training hall, moving with his usual commanding stride. Valen walks beside him, his expression observant. Garrick, arms crossed, surveys the warriors training with an assessing gaze. Rain and Jarek move in sync, while Captain Elaris takes position at the front, his sharp gaze cutting through the noise.
And behind them come the noble guests—Lord Toren Hale and Lady Evelyne. The warriors continue their drills, their strikes still sharp, but there’s awareness now—subtle, but palpable.
Lyra steps beside me, stretching out her shoulders. “Well, don’t they look pleased to be here?” she mutters.
Taila, flicks her gaze toward the nobles. “I’m sure nothingexcites a highborn more than a hall full of sweaty warriors.”
Darius smirks, shaking his head. “Think we should put on a show?” Fenric doesn’t look up from his match with Kieran, but one corner of his mouth lifts—just barely. Darius catches it, his smirk deepening.
I roll my eyes at them, but I don’t miss the way Lady Evelyne’s gaze sweeps the hall, cataloging every detail.
Other warriors pause too—a glance toward the noble party, curiosity slipping into their movements.
Garrick notices. “You waiting for an invitation?”
His voice cuts through the hall, sharp and commanding. Several warriors snap their attention back to their sparring partners.
“Get back to training. If you’ve got time to stare, you’ve got time to move your feet.”
