Their blades sang again, but even that couldn’t drown out her own heartbeat, climbing up her throat. The dream echoed behind her eyes, Alarik’s hands, his wicked mouth, the way he looked at her as she came undone.
Maris gritted her teeth and stepped back.
“I. said. I’m. fine.,” she hissed, not sure if she meant it for Serenya or herself.
Serenya didn’t push. She only gave a small, knowing nod, backing away.
And that’s when Maris turned.
Alarik was at the railing now, one hand braced on the wood, his face unreadable in the afternoon light. Wind pulled through his hair, the fabric of his white tunic rippling in waves.
He looked every bit the king. One who had touched her like she was both sacred and dangerous.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them looked away.
But still, no words passed between them.
Just silence and tension.
The memories echoing between them.
Serenya didn’t miss the opportunity, with a swift pivot, she twisted inside Maris’s guard, ducked low, and in one smooth move swept Maris’s legs from beneath her.
The deck tilted. Maris landed on her back with a grunt, her sword clattering from her fingers.
Serenya stood over her, brow raised, sword tip pointed playfully at Maris’s throat. Her blue eyes danced. A stupid smile plastered across her face.
Maris exhaled sharply, closing her eyes. “Gods, just run me through.”
Serenya laughed, offering a hand. “I would’ve… but I requested the same clemency from you for days and it was not granted.”
Maris blinked up at her shaking her head.
Serenya tilted her head, eyes flicking past Maris’s shoulder.
Maris’s face flushed, and she accepted the hand, rising to her feet with more grace than she felt.
“Fine,” Maris muttered, brushing sea salt and splinters off her leathers. “You win.”
“I always win,” Serenya said, smirking. “But it’s never this entertaining.”
Maris narrowed her eyes. “Careful. I might snap my fingers and accidentally cut your braid off next.”
Serenya chuckled turning on her heels, walking toward her water skin but her words followed Maris like a curse.
Maris turned toward the sea again. Toward the figure still lingering there, as if he’d been carved into the deck boards themselves.
She then followed her friend. A drink of cold water would be welcomed. She hoped it would quench her thirst and rinse away her torturous thoughts.
-Alarik-
Alarik didn’t mean to watch her for so long. But the moment his boots touched the deck, his gaze locked on the two figures sparring then narrowed to one.
Maris.
Hair windblown. Leathers clinging in ways that made his restraint feel like a noose. She moved with elegance and grit, dodging, parrying, turning the motion of each blow into art. But it wasn’t her precision that shattered his composure.
