I drop next to him, grateful for a break.
“It’s hard,” he says quietly.
“I’m not cut out for any of this. I have no idea why the goddess chose me for this.”
King Sylvian leans close, knees brushing mine. “Yet, you keep trying. Not everyone does. Actually, most people don’t.” He says it like it’s the highest compliment.
That’s hardly an asset.
I bite back the urge to cry.
He lets the silence grow, then says, “Balance is not about never falling. It’s about knowing where your center is, and coming back to it.“
His hand, broad and warm, settles briefly on my shoulder. Then he stands, offering it to help me up.
“Earth fae win slow,” he says, pulling me upright. “But we win.”
I let myself lean on his arm just long enough to get my footing. He doesn’t comment, just smiles, then gestures toward the center yard.
King Cassius stands there already, wooden sword in hand, waiting.
I take a deep breath, straighten my shirt, and walk back for what I hope is the final round.
King Cassius is a blue shadow against the pale gravel in the center of the yard. He doesn’t smile or tease or do anything to show that this is just an exercise. Instead, he studies me, eyes so pale they’re almost colorless.
I try not to let it get to me. But it does.
“Water fae,” he says, as if reading my mind, “value three things: precision, adaptability, and observation. You don’t win by being the strongest. You win by never letting the enemy see what you’re doing.”
He steps into a guard position so perfect it looks like a sculpture. “Attack.”
“Attack?”
He nods and motions for me to come at him.
Okay then…
I charge, sword up, and he parries with the barest flick of his wrist. My blade spins from my hand and clatters across the yard. King Cassius just stands there, unmoving.
I jog after the sword, cheeks burning. When I get back, he’s still in the same stance.
“Again,” he says.
I swing harder, aiming for his side. He twists, and the sword is gone from my grip before I even register what happened. This time, he catches it in the air and hands it back to me, expression unreadable.
“You’re giving away your every move,” he says, tone flat. “Don’t.”
I try to muster a comeback, but he’s already in motion, circling me with predatory calm. I realize he’s not trying to exhaust me, he’s trying to teach me. He’s studying me.
“Watch my feet,” King Cassius says. “Where do I put my weight before I strike?”
I do, but the answer eludes me. When he moves, it’s liquid. His feet barely touch the ground. I lunge again, and this time, when he knocks the blade from my hands, he catches my arm before I can fall.
His touch is strong, but not rough. He rights me, then steps away.
“Again,” he says, and we repeat the whole thing, over and over, until the world narrows to just the exact moment his balance shifts, the way his expression softens right before he counters. I start to catch the pattern. I realize it’s not magic, it’s just observation.
After a while, he starts quizzing me between rounds. “Where was my weight before the last strike?” “Did my shoulders square or did I stay open?” “What did I do with my eyes?”
