He winked. “Like me.”
Riven rolled his eyes and followed, blade already in hand. “Don’t worry, Maris. I’ll cut him down for you.”
It was chaos from the first strike.
Corin came in with a brutal overhead swing. Maris deflected, staggered, and twisted under his reach only to meet Riven’s blade next, sharp and clean, his movements like poetry carved in iron. Serenya ducked back into the fray, her blade a blur between all of them, blocking Corin from overextending and sweeping Maris’s feet just for the hell of it.
They were grinning.
All of them.
Even Maris.
Laughter cracked through the courtyard, sharp and honest. Steel met steel. Rain beaded off their shoulders. Her pulse was pounding, not from dread, but from life.
She felt like herself.
“You three are terrifying,” she gasped between parries.
“We’re just warming up,” Riven said, sidestepping a strike.
“Speak for yourself,” Serenya panted. “I already regret not eating breakfast.”
Corin barked a laugh. “You’ll regret more than that when Maris kicks your ass.”
They circled again, sweat mixing with rain, blades flashing under the gray light.
And for that one stolen moment, before the council, before the war, there were no gods. No curses. No impossible choices.
-Kael-
The council chamber smelled of wet stone and old power. A fire roared in the hearth, half-smothered by damp wood, and the heavy scent of smoke clung to the air.
Around the long carved table, nobles and generals sat hunched and grim, brows drawn tight as maps sprawled across the polished wood. The unrest across the sea. Ports falling silent. Disappearances of ships, and villagers. Veil activity spotted where once there had only been waves.
Kael stared at the ink-stained parchment in front of him, but the words blurred.
Alarik sat three chairs down, golden hair damp from the mist, a hand pressed to his chin as he studied a war report. He looked the perfect image of a thoughtful king. Diplomatic. Controlled.
Maris sat across from him. A wet strain of hair stuck to her face, wearing rain soaked leathers, she ran in straight from the training yard. She was followed by Serenya, Corin, and Riven all fresh from sparring. She looked nowhere in particular, more than aware of the number of eyes on her. They all waited for any sign of weakness.
He couldn’t help but stare at her, he’d gone to check on her last night, but was told by a guard that King Alarik was already within her chamber.
A voice pulled him back from his thoughts.
“Focus,” Thauren muttered beside him, voice a threat.
Kael blinked hard, jaw tightening. “I’m focused.”
“You’re brooding,” Thauren corrected. “And people are starting to notice, remember my promise to drown you in the sea?.”
Kael ground his teeth, eyes flicking back to the maps. “I don’t need a lecture.”
Thauren stayed silent after that, a quiet triumph shaded his expression.
When the meeting adjourned, nobles filed out with murmured bows and rustling cloaks, Thauren caught Kael’s elbow before he could storm after them. The firelight glinted off the Storm-crowned’s armor, his eyes unreadable.
“If you’re going to lead this war with a clear head,” Thauren said, “you need to let go of what you think happened last night.”
