They traded blows, each one louder than the last, the wooden swords colliding in a rhythm that soon drove all other thoughts from her mind. She forgot about the frost and the ache in her wrists. She forgot about the way Kael’s eyes lingered on her mouth when he thought she wasn’t looking, or the way he’d held her hand at the festival.
She was nothing but muscle and will, sweat prickling under her tunic, hair coming loose from its tie. The only thing that mattered was the next strike, and the next, and the next.
They broke apart after a particularly brutal exchange—at least for her; Kael hadn’t even broken a sweat. Her sword had gone spinning into the snow, and she with it. For a moment, neither spoke. Her breath sawed the air in clouds, her face flushed and alive.
Kael offered her a hand, and she took it, letting him haul her upright.
“You fight angry,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek with the back of his hand. The touch left a smudge of dirt that neither of them bothered to wipe away.
She shrugged. “I fight to win. Isn’t that the point?”
He looked at her—really looked, and seemed to contemplate what he was seeing. “You just might,” he said.
They stood that way for a second too long, the energy from the bout still vibrating between them. Then Kael let go and turned, gesturing for her to follow.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s see if you can aim.”
They crossed the yard to the far wall, where a row of battered targets leaned drunkenly against the stone. Most were more patch than wood, pocked with arrows and knife scars from years of practice and frustration.
Kael handed her a bow, the string freshly waxed, and set a quiver at her feet. He didn’t give instructions this time, just nodded at the targets and stepped back.
Alina nocked an arrow and drew, the motion rough and unfamiliar. She’d only shot a handful of times—mostly as a child, under the bored eye of some long-forgotten tutor. But the muscle memory was still there, buried under layers of etiquette and expectation.
Her first shot went wide, thunking into the dirt two feet left of the target. The second hit the edge, splintering the wood but refusing to stick. She tried again, adjusting her grip as she remembered her childhood lessons.
The third arrow sailed straight and true, punching into the red-painted center with a sound like a promise kept.
Kael let out a low whistle. “Well,” he said, crossing his arms. “Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”
She turned, grinning. “You sound surprised.”
He grinned back, the line of his mouth wicked and a little bit wild. “I’m always surprised by you.”
He stepped close—closer than before, close enough that she could see the golden flecks in his eyes and the fine scar at the cornerof his mouth. He took her hand in his, guiding her fingers along the shaft of the next arrow.
“Remember to breathe,” he said, his voice barely more than a murmur. “In through the nose, out through the mouth.”
She did as he asked, and he let his hand linger just a heartbeat too long before releasing.
She drew, aimed, fired.
Another bullseye.
Kael’s reaction was a wordless, exhaled laugh, equal parts delight and disbelief.
She turned, her emotions from their initial encounter resurfacing. “Maybe you should let me teach you, next round.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, Princess?”
She took a step forward until there was no space left between them, her chest bumping up against his. “Call it an invitation.”
He looked down at her, searching for the joke, but she met his gaze head-on, refusing to look away. Something shifted—so subtle that, had she not been watching for it, she’d have missed it entirely. A hesitation, a softening, a moment when anything might have happened.
But Kael only smiled, a slow, private thing. “Next round,” he agreed. “But first, breakfast.”
He turned and started toward the mess hall, leaving her to follow.
Alina stayed where she was for a moment, letting the adrenaline drain from her limbs, her skin still tingling from the memory of his touch.
