I take a breath and lunge. He steps aside, so quickly my eyes can’t track the motion, and taps my shoulder with his finger. “Try again.”
I grit my teeth and swing wide, then switch and jab, then duck low, all in quick succession. King Ashton’s always just out of reach, sometimes leaning backward so far it looks like gravity should drag him down. He doesn’t even draw a weapon. He justsidesteps, every time, then points out how I could have done it better.
He circles constantly, forcing me to turn, to track him, to guess where he’ll be next. My breath turns ragged. Sweat soaks the collar of my shirt. All the while, he keeps up a steady stream of nonsense, sometimes actual advice, sometimes a murmur just meant to distract.
“You’ve got great instincts, but your gaze is betraying you,” he says, stepping left as I overcommit to a swing. “You stare where you want to go. Next time, look at my shoulder, not my feet.”
His hands are everywhere, but never where I expect. Gliding across my hips. Grasping my shoulder. Rotating my hands. When he touches me, his touch is featherlight, more suggestion than command. He’s so much stronger than me, but it’s like he’s afraid even his light touch will bruise me.
It’s… distracting.
After five minutes, I’m ready to collapse. King Ashton is barely winded. He finally stops, catching my wrist as I overbalance on a lunge. He holds it long enough to steady me, then steps close and presses his palm over my eyes.
“Let’s try a trick,” he says, low, so only I can hear. “Wind fights best blind. You trust me?”
I don’t trust anyone. But I nod.
He produces a soft cloth from his sleeve and blindfolds me, gentle as a parent. “Other senses matter more than sight,” King Ashton says. “Hear my breath. Listen for my feet on the gravel. Try it.”
With the cloth tight over my eyes, I’m lost. I breathe in, and all I get is dust, sweat, and the faint tang of whatever the servants washed my shirt with. There’s a whisper of movement, then the briefest rustle of air, and I feel the weight shift behind me.
I turn, swinging the sword upward, and King Ashton laughs in delight. “See? Better already.”
He circles me again, faster, feet almost silent. I miss twice, but the third time I angle my body and listen for the tiniest shift, and my blade catches something soft, his sleeve, maybe.
He catches my shoulder, steadying me again, and this time his hand lingers a little longer than it needs to. He’s quiet, but the pressure of his palm says more than words. There’s pride there, and something else I can’t name.
“You’re a natural,” he whispers, so low it’s almost lost. “Told you there was a warrior in there.”
I pull the blindfold down and meet his gaze, surprised to find myself grinning. My arms hurt, my whole body shakes with exertion, but for once I don’t feel completely out of my depth.
He bows to me, just a little, then gestures at the others. “King Sylvian, she’s all yours. Try not to break her.”
I almost laugh, but then I remember who’s next.
King Sylvian stands, brushes imaginary dirt from his mossy green sleeves, and stretches his arms above his head. There’s something so casual about the gesture it takes me a second to realize he’s mocking King Ashton’s showboating. King Ashton just rolls his eyes, then blows a kiss in King Sylvian’s direction, which earns a genuine, easy smile.
“Are we done with the theatrics?” King Sylvian asks, not quite hiding the affection in his words.
“Only if you promise not to bore her to death,” King Ashton retorts.
King Sylvian shakes his head, then fixes his attention on me, and in that instant the world contracts to just the two of us. The other kings fade into background noise.
“I know you’re tired,” he says gently. “But earth teaches best when you’re tired. That’s when you learn what you’re made of.”
He leads me past the main yard to a side space, where the gravel is replaced with narrow planks, some set into seesaws, others into tilting platforms. At first, I don’t understand. Then I do, and my stomach sinks. Balance was never my strong suit.
King Sylvian stands on the nearest beam, hands clasped behind his back, and waits for me to climb up beside him.
“Earth fae don’t move fast. We don’t even move much, if we can help it. We win by being the last to fall.”
I put one foot on the beam, then the other, wobbling. It’s worse than I expected, but I grit my teeth and hold steady.
“Let’s try simple at first,” he says. “Just walk with me. No sword needed.”
He leads the way, moving slow enough that I have no excuse but to follow. His steps are unhurried, steady. When I falter, his hand is already there, palm open, ready to catch me before I go over. He never grips, never holds tight. He just keeps me from tipping, then lets go instantly.
We make a circuit of the beams, up and down, over and back, until my legs start to shake. Keeping balanced is harder than it looks. If he wasn’t constantly there to catch me, I’d have had some pretty nasty falls by now. King Sylvian doesn’t comment, doesn’t scold or instruct. Instead, he sits on the edge of a platform and pats the wood beside him.
