The wind outside howled against the stone walls of the Western Wing, carrying with it the echo of distant storms that refused to break. Lanterns flickered in the long hall that led to the training courtyard, casting long shadows across Kaerth's boots as he walked alone.
He didn't feel cold. Not really. Not when his chest was still burning from what had happened earlier with Ignareth.
The spar hadn't gone as planned. It was meant to be a simple match—just a test of skill. But somewhere between the way Ignareth looked at him with those unreadable eyes and the way his hand lingered too long after disarming Kaerth, something shifted.
Kaerth clenched his fists, pushing open the doors to the training yard. The storm clouds hung low in the sky, but the courtyard was dry under the shelter of the high walls. He needed the air. He needed distance—from everyone.
But Ignareth was already there.
