A few quick murmurs, the shuffle of boots, the sharp clash of steel as those who had hesitated refocus. I adjust my stance, gripping my blade a little tighter.
The mat shifts beneath me as I reset—muscles humming, grip tightening on the blade.
I don’t look toward the entrance. I don’t need to. I can hear them. I can feel their eyes on me. Lord Toren and Lady Evelyne Hale, standing with Thane and the others, evaluating.
Their voices carry through the expansive space.
And I know without looking that she is standing too close to him.
Because I’ve noticed every time Lady Evelyne places her hand on Thane’s arm. A lingering touch. A casual brush of fingers against his sleeve. A deliberate move into his space—one he doesn’t react to, but doesn’t stop either.
It makes my blood boil.
I set my jaw, refocusing on Taila. She’s fast, sharp, relentless. I need to be faster.
I lunge.
Steel rings against steel as I drive her back, pressing harder, testing her defenses. She ducks under my swing and counters with a low strike. I twist away, boots skimming the mat, my body moving before my mind catches up.
My blade flashes as I retaliate, a sharp thrust aimed toward her ribs. Taila barely dodges, her brows raising slightly at my sudden intensity.
Nearby, Lyra clocks the shift, but doesn’t stop moving. She smirks as she dodges Darius’s strike, landing a quick jab to his ribs.
“Don’t let a little audience distract you, boys and girls,” she calls, breathless but grinning.
A few of the other sparring warriors chuckle. I don’t laugh. Instead, I push harder—Taila notices.
Beyond her, I glimpse Lady Evelyne watching. She studies me with sharp interest. Her gaze tracks each strike, each counter.
I know what she sees; I’m not polished and I don’t fight like a noble.
But I’m effective.
She tilts her head, thoughtful. “Your warriors are well-trained, Warlord,” Evelyne says softly, her voice carrying. Her gaze flicks back to me, still locked in combat with Taila. “But that one—” she pauses, considering, “—is not just trained. She fights like someone with something to prove.”
As she speaks, she rests a hand on Thane’s bicep, fingers lingering a breath too long. She leans in, as if speaking just to him—but loud enough that everyone nearby can hear.
My grip tightens around my blade.That one.
Heat flares beneath my ribs—anger and indignation curling like a lit fuse. I press forward, forcing Taila back a step, but my focus momentarily flickers.
I glance over her shoulder, catching Thane’s eyes. Hisexpression doesn’t change, but something in his gaze does.
“She fights to win,” he says simply.
Evelyne’s lips quirk, something glinting in her eyes. “So I see.”
I grit my teeth and shove Taila’s blade aside—harder than necessary.
I am not entertainment. Not something to be observed, analyzed, picked apart with passing comments like I’m not standing right here.
I don’t break again. I hold steady. My blade stays where it should.
They can talk all they want—I know exactly what I’m proving and I don’t need their approval to do it.
The sparring hall hums with the sharp clash of steel, the steady thud of boots against the mats, the rhythmic exhale of warriors pushing themselves to their limits. My pulse still beats fast, the weight of combat thrumming through my limbs after another hard round with Taila.
Then, a voice cuts through the room, deliberately loud enough to be heard.
