"What troubles you, my lady? Did you not sleep well?"
This bastard.
I clenched my jaw, glaring at Kairan from across the training ground. He stood there with a wooden sword resting against his shoulder, looking like he had slept like a king while I spent the entire night replaying the fact that he exposed my identity and Meredia's entire secret history like it was casual bedtime gossip.
I inhaled deeply.
This man was weird in multiple ways, but today's highlight was the fact that he fully intended to fight me. With swords. A real, living opponent , not the practice dummies I occasionally bullied.
I've never actually fought a person before. So this should be… great. Fantastic. A perfect recipe for my death.
"My lady," his voice cut through my panic again, smooth and annoyingly amused. "Why so quiet? I trust I have not stolen your voice."
"I am all right, Your Highness," I answered, trying to sound sane. "But I've never fought an actual person. Could you teach me a little first?"
His head tilted, eyes glinting with that smug, polite wickedness.
"No."
A beat.
"I am not Kirill."
His refusal barely settled before he shifted into position.
"Kirill trains people like a circusmaster beating tired animals," he said, twirling the wooden blade with lazy arrogance. "I do not."
Then he moved without any signal or warning. He stepped in and swung.
I shrieked loud enough to scare birds. I flung my sword up purely because I enjoy living. The wooden crack jolted all the way up my arm, rattling my teeth.
He smiled immediately. It wasn't courageous or motivating, just a "wow, this is even worse than I imagined" sort of smile.
"Good," he said. "At least fear does something productive in you."
I wanted to throw the sword at his face.
He tapped my blade like he was checking if I was still conscious. "Again."
"But I don't know the footwork!" I said, wobbling in my ridiculous stance. "If you teach me even a little—"
He didn't even let me finish.
He stepped closer again.
His hand closed around my wrist, strong enough that I froze, warm enough that my brain malfunctioned. He lifted my arm a little, adjusted my sword angle with precise fingers.
He dipped his head slightly to align his eyes with mine, and his voice came low, level, and annoyingly controlled near my ear.
"Your stance collapses under pressure. Your grip is weak. And stop looking at the ground unless it has become your opponent."
I swallowed, painfully aware of how tall he was. He didn't have to lean much, just enough to get close enough to ruin my ability to think.
He moved behind me. His shadow loomed over my shoulder as his boot nudged my foot outward. My legs shifted automatically.
"There," he said. "Hold it properly."
My spine felt too warm. My dignity felt deceased.
He stepped back, and the distance returned with blessed airflow.
"Raise your blade, my lady." Hiis sword lifted with insulting ease. "If you fall, you fall. If you break, you break. That is the only training that matters."
I wanted to smack him with the blunt side.
He didn't wait and e charged again.
Our swords collided, and the impact nearly ripped the weapon out of my hands.
"Tighten your grip," he said while circling me like a critic reviewing bad theatre. "Unless you truly wish to lose fingers."
"I am tightening it!" I snapped.
"Then your strength is… unfortunate."
I lunged out of spite.
He stepped aside before my brain processed that he had moved. Just a little shift of his weight, and suddenly he was behind me.
A hand landed on my shoulder, turning me around , not gently, but not painfully either. Just terrifyingly efficient.
His face came slightly down toward mine, close enough that I saw the faint gold flecks in his eyes.
"Your body announces your next move before you make it."
He tapped my forehead with the end of his wooden sword. "And your thoughts are lagging behind even that."
My jaw dropped. "Lagging? I haven't slept properly because you dumped ancient witch lore on my head last night, you—"
"Excuses." He raised his sword again. "Excuses are the death of warriors."
He attacked.
I blocked accidentally out of , primal panic.
His eyebrow lifted, clearly impressed and annoyed at the same time. "Instinct. Good."
He angled his sword until it skimmed dangerously close to my shoulder. "Now force your mind to keep up with those instincts."
He shoved gently. I stumbled back like a drunk goat.
"You enjoy bullying me," I hissed.
His smile deepened slowly knowing, wicked.
"If I wished to bully you," he said quietly, "you would already be on the ground."
He shifted his foot behind mine.
I felt it and damn I understood it but I still fell for it.
He hooked my ankle.
My balance evaporated, and I let out a sound that should never be heard by humans. But before I hit the ground, his arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me upright.
My face ended closer to his chest than I wanted to feel the warmth radiating off him.
"Do you understand now?" he said, voice dropping like warm silk.
I hated the way my breath caught. Ihated how warm he felt. Ihated that he smelled good. I hated everything.
He eased me upright, his touch gentler than his words.
"Again," he ordered, stepping back.
His eyes gleamed with challenge.
"Before you tire or faint. Whichever arrives first."
My blood boiled.
"Your Highness," I growled, raising my sword, "I swear I will hit you at least once."
He laughed.
A deep, rich sound that hit embarrassingly low in my stomach.
"Then come try, little witch."
I lunged again, swinging with a mix of frustration and panic.
He sidestepped easily, barely bending at the waist, and the tip of his sword nudged mine with a light tap.
"You're tense again," he said, circling me like a predator inspecting a prey. "Relax. Focus. Your arms are rigid, your stance is all wrong. Do you want to break your own weapon before you even land a hit?"
"I don't need your commentary!" I snapped, wiping sweat off my forehead. My muscles ached from the constant tension, and I felt like I was melting from the effort.
He chuckled low, a dangerous, amused sound. "Anger doesn't help either. Channel it, little witch. Every motion must flow from thought, not panic."
I threw myself forward, huffing, barely keeping my balance. His blade met mine again with a sharp clack, forcing me back a step.
"You block too early. Timing is everything," he murmured, eyes scanning every twitch in my stance. "Predicting is for amateurs. React."
I growled, lunged, missed completely, and nearly toppled.
He caught the opportunity to press. His sword nudged mine with teasing precision, pushing, pulling, forcing me to pivot, turn, stumble. I felt like I was dancing in a storm I didn't understand.
"You're learning, though slowly," he said, his voice low but not unkind. "Fear keeps you alive. Use it. Don't let it control you."
"I hate you," I murmured, gasping, trying to even my breathing.
"Good. Hate sharpens the mind," he actually heard that. He adjusted my wrist again mid-block, turning me ever so slightly. "Your hands are weak. Grip like you mean to survive."
I bit back a snarl and forced my arms tighter around the sword. He nodded, satisfied enough to give me a moment to breathe. But even in that pause, he didn't look away. Every inch of his posture radiated control, dominance, and the kind of confidence that made my stomach twist.
An hour passed. My arms screamed, my legs ached and myy lungs burned. Yet, even as my body wanted to collapse, I couldn't look away from him. He moved with an effortless rhythm, each step was calculated, making my mistakes painfully obvious.
Finally, he pulled back, letting me stagger a few steps on my own. "Enough for now," he said, voice low, smooth, carrying that same impossibly controlled heat. "Longer than I expected. Hm. Perhaps you are not as fragile as I thought."
I dropped my sword, breathing hard, muscles trembling. My shirt clung to me from sweat, and I felt every ache in my body.
He stepped closer, tall and imposing, his eyes scanning me like a sculptor examining his work. "You tire quickly," he noted, almost casually. "But you listen. That's progress."
I wiped my damp hair from my face, glaring at him. "Progress doesn't feel like someone slowly killing me."
"Then you've learned something," he murmured, lips twitching into a small, knowing smile.
I sank to my knees, just catching my breath. My arms felt like jelly. My legs were ready to give out entirely. Training with him had been far longer, far more intense than with Kirill. Somehow, the prince made every second feel like it carried danger, like every motion could be my undoing.
Kirill was a circusmaster. He made your body ache, exhausted you with repetition.
This prince… I shivered, thinking about it, this prince made your mind scream constantly. One misstep, one slow thought, and I would be done for. He's… idle in appearance, but his control keeps you on edge the entire time.
I leaned back on my arms, panting, still unable to move properly, and watched him sheathe the wooden sword with that careless elegance.
"You'll recover," he said softly, eyes still fixed on me. "Tomorrow, we start again. And you will be better."
I groaned, not sure if I wanted to curse him or beg for mercy.
He didn't wait for my answer. With that quietness, he turned, already walking toward the training grounds exit, leaving me on the floor, every muscle screaming, every nerve alive with tension.
This is going to be hell, I swallowed hard. And I'm already… terrified.
Yet, despite every pain, every fear, and every beat of my racing heart, I couldn't stop my eyes from following him.
He looked so calm.... And so untouchable.
And I was utterly, completely at his mercy.