“Don’t. Any kind of distraction will get you killed.”
Ferrula didn’t smile. She didn’t joke. But her voice softened slightly for me. For all of us. Her sharp edges, it seemed, were for anyone not in Thrall Squad.
And that included Perin.
The Iron Fang rider had strutted around most of the morning like he owned the training grounds. The way he laughed when Tae missed a catch. The eye-roll he gave when Jax offered a tip. The way he kept glancing toward Zander, as if every success Thrall Squad had was some personal insult.
So when Major Ledor called him up to spar against Ferrula, a hush fell over both squads.
Perin sauntered forward with that cocky smirk of his, twirling his short blade. “Don’t go easy on me,” he purred, “I like a challenge.”
Ferrula didn’t respond. She just nodded once, stance loose, shoulders angled just so, like she wasn’t even taking him seriously.
And then the match started.
It lasted eight seconds.
Perin lunged. Ferrula side-stepped, ducked, twisted her elbow into his ribs, and dumped him to the ground with brutal efficiency that made even Riven wince. She didn’t gloat. Didn’t smirk. Just turned her back on him as if he weren’t worth the effort.
Perin growled, pushing himself to his feet, and for a moment, his fingers twitched, the pulse of power coiling low in his stance.
“You even try it,” Major Ledor barked from the sideline, “and I’ll put you on leave so long your squad will forget your name.”
Perin froze, then spat into the dirt and stormed off without another word.
Ferrula watched him go, her face unreadable.
We continued our instruction. The courier arrived just as Ferrula landed a final strike on Tae, and he groaned dramatically from the ground.
“You all have one hour,” the courier announced, voice clipped with urgency. “Prince Theron has requested the presence of Thrall Squad and Iron Fang at the council banquet. You’ll be escorted to the castle shortly.”
Major Ledor gave us all a tired once-over. “You heard him. Go get presentable. That means no weapons unless ceremonial, and clean your damn boots.”
We scattered like windblown leaves.
The barracks door creaked open and we filed in, muscles aching and tempers frayed from a day in the dirt. Veyna sat upright in one of the lower bunks, Cordelle’s book in her lap and a tray beside her half-filled with leftover cheese, meat, and soft biscuits.
She looked up as we entered, and her smile bloomed like dawn. “How was training?”
“Grueling,” I groaned, kicking off my boots. “But you don’t have to hide away in here, Veyna. You’re not a prisoner.”
“I know.” She closed the book and stretched, slow and feline. “I actually ventured to the food hall earlier. I wasn’t sure how much to take so… I may have overdone it.” She motioned toward the still-neatly-arranged tray. “But I’m working on it.”
I laughed and tugged off my outer tunic. “Well, we’ve got a banquet to survive. Council function. Fancy armor. Politics. All the things I love.”
“I’m planning a walk later,” she said softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling.
“Good.” I nodded, meaning it.
I scrubbed the dirt from my hands and arms, then donned my formal armor—silver-brushed plating polished to a dull gleam, embossed with the Thrall insignia Kaelith had scorched into the leather shoulder. I adjusted the straps, then reached for the arm guards.
There was a knock.
Jax crossed the room and opened the door, then stepped aside with a mock bow. “Your prince has arrived.”
Zander stood there like something out of a fever dream, his formal leathers sleek and fitted, the royal insignia stitched into the chest. His eyes found mine instantly, and something in them softened as they lingered.
“You ready?” he asked, voice low and rough from too many nights without sleep.
