And yet, here she was tucked in a cold bed in a room that wasn't truly hers, her body still sore from that wretched dream in the night. She curled tighter beneath the sheets, trying to block out the echo of her own thoughts, but sleep never came. Only restless drifting, haunted by flickers of Kael’s silver eyes, by shadows that twisted like they knew her name, and by a looming sense that she was being watched. Measured. Prepared.
So when the knock at her door came, loud and final, she already knew the day would bring no comfort.
Valea stepped in without waiting for permission, her usual dresses replaced with a black leather uniform raised swirled patterns covered the expanse of the material, a silver handled dagger strapped to her hip.
“Wake, mortal,” she commanded, tone sharp as a blade. “Your lessons begin today, the king requested you learn our ways, combat training is a requirement for all of noble blood.”
Maris blinked at her, still half in the haze of nightmares.
Valea crossed the floor with a predator’s ease, holding out a folded bundle of black leathers and dropped a pair of black leather boots at the foot of Maris's bed.
“You will wear these.”
Maris took them gingerly, unfolding a fitted set of training clothes: high-necked tunic cut to hug her form, stitched in pale gray thread with strange protective patterns, paired with slim-fitted leather trousers that hugged her legs like a second skin. They looked impossibly elegant and terribly intimidating, made of supple leather that smelled faintly of smoke and oils.
The boots were soft-soled and perfectly molded, their design clearly built for both speed and balance. She’d never worn anything so perfectly measured for her body, the unsettling knowledge that someone had taken her measurements while she slept made her stomach twist.
The thought of her in combat was almost a laughable offense in her mind. How was she expected to go toe to toe with trained killers. Monsters.
Maris dressed, trying not to tremble, and followed Valea through the long halls. They stepped into the training courtyard, and Maris’s breath caught.
The yard was huge, a quadrangle surrounded by high walls wrapped in climbing thorn-roses, their blooms a sickly pale from the curse. Overhead, twisted iron lanterns burned with cold witchlight, casting eerie green glows across the ground.
Several sections were marked off with chalk, like a chessboard, each a different practice ring. Some circles were ringed with sharpened stakes where more advanced warriors trained in dangerous duels. Rows of weapon racks stood along the sides, gleaming with knives, swords, and polearms that looked more art than war.
The training area was packed with black gravel, carefully raked smooth, and from one end to the other Maris could see the soldiers of the court, nightbound, dangerous, graceful, moving in synchronized drills.
At the far end, stood a raised platform crowned with banners bearing the silver rose and moon sigil of Nythra. Kael waited there, arms folded, his unbound tunic fluttering in the cold breeze. His silver eyes fixed on her the moment she crossed the threshold, and stayed there, heavy and consuming.
Maris felt raw under that stare, but forced herself to keep moving.
Two towering figures approached from Valea's left.
One was a mountain, built like a warhammer in flesh, with hair darker than coal tied back in a thick braid. Cold, intelligent eyes, so dark they seemed endless, watched her. The tattoos snaking down his neck marked him as a general, and the ring on his left hand declared him loyal to Kael alone.
The other was shorter but no less intimidating, with lean whipcord muscle and a calm, cruel smile. Short black hair displayed his angular face that would have been handsome if not for the faint scar that crossed his right eye.
Valea inclined her head. “General Riven,” she introduced, gesturing to the massive nightbound, “and General Corin,” nodding to the scarred one. “They will oversee your instruction.”
Riven only grunted, eyes raking over Maris as though measuring her worth.
Corin offered the barest hint of a smile, but no warmth. “The King’s ward, then? We will see what survives.”
Maris swallowed hard, feeling dwarfed by them. But that was not the end of the watchers.
Near Kael, leaning against a column with practiced arrogance, stood a female with hair like flame, coiled in elaborate braids that hinted at rank. Her eyes were a molten red, and the tilt of her mouth carried dangerous confidence.
Her armor was as red as the blood, she undoubtedly could spill yet elegant, gilded with roses etched in silver, and the twin knives at her belt showed she was no mere ornament. She watched Kael with a possessive intensity that made Maris’s skin crawl and when those eyes flicked to Maris, they blazed with open hostility.
Is she a lover? Maris wondered, dread twisting inside her. Or does she only wish to be?
Valea murmured near Maris’s ear, “That is Lady Astrielle, one of our finest warriors. She… admires the King greatly.”
Maris flinched, the message clear: Watch your back.
Once training began the two warriors gave her no chance to breathe. Valea barked orders and Riven shoved a wooden practice dagger into Maris’s hand, its grip rough against her skin.
“Show me,” Riven growled, gesturing to one of the sparring circles.
