Areya's POV
The border was never quiet.
It may look quiet, trees standing tall, leaves shifting in the wind, the ground soft with moss. But beneath it, the silence carried a weight.
This was no-man's land, where peace was nothing more than a truce carved on paper and blood smeared on memory.
Areya led her patrol with the tension of someone walking a blade's edge. Her warriors moved in a loose fan behind her, weapons close to hand, eyes sweeping the treeline.
Too close to the line demarcation, she thought. But the patrol had to be made.
She felt it before she saw them, shadows moving wrong, air shifting thick. Then came the flash of steel.
Kera's men. You could recognize them by their scents.
They surged from the trees, blades bright and sharp, moving like wolves trained for this moment.
The clash came fast. No words. No posturing. Just the screech of steel and the dull thud of bodies hitting dirt.
Areya's sword was already up. Her muscles knew the rhythm…parry, strike, twist. Her fury filled in the rest. Every swing she made carried the fire she'd buried since childhood. Every cut was a memory she'd never let go.
But something was wrong.
They weren't pressing to kill. Their strikes landed heavy, yes, but always just shy of the throat, just shy of the heart. They pushed. They threatened. But they didn't finish.
Mockery? She gritted her teeth.
They were treating them like a child with a wooden sword.
Her response was merciless. She cut one man down, then another, ignoring the sting of shallow cuts on her arms. She refused to give them the dignity of hesitation.
And when the last of them pulled back, she realized the silence had deepened again. Not empty this time. Charged.
She looked up.
Right at the ridge's edge, stood Kera.
The sight of him hit like a stone to the chest. He didn't move. Didn't shout. Didn't even draw steel. He only stood, watching.
Every story she'd told herself about him, every reason for her hatred…rose like smoke choking her throat.
"Kera." The name left her mouth like a curse.
His men shifted uneasily, glancing at him, waiting. Orders never came.
Areya tightened her grip on her sword. "Coward. Hiding behind others."
But he didn't flinch. His hand hovered at his blade once, gripping, then loosening. As if he warred with himself.
She hated the heat in her chest, hated the fact that his silence was harder to endure than an attack.
If he had lunged, if he had bled, she could have faced it. But this? Watching her like she was something he couldn't touch?
The air between them was a bowstring, pulled tight and straining.
Then, without a word…he turned. His men followed, some with relief in their faces, others with resentment, like they'd wanted the fight to go further.
Areya stood in the settling silence, her blade dripping. Her heart thudded too fast, too uneven.
Hatred, she told herself. It's hatred. Nothing else.
---
Kera's POV
The border was a wound that never healed.
His men said it belonged to them. Her people said the same. Kera had stopped counting the lives wasted in its shadows years ago. Still, here he was again, standing at the edge of it, watching the old cycle chew at the edges of peace.
Steel clashed below.
He hadn't given the order to attack, not like this. His words had been clear: hold the line, show strength, but don't spill blood… not until he commanded it… But, when his warriors slipped from the trees, their blades drawn, a little bit of restraint had gone missing.
And there she was.
Areya.
Her name had no business in his thoughts, yet it rose all the same. He watched her move…fury sharpened into steel, every strike filled with a fire most men could never stand against. She cut down his men with the kind of precision that left no doubt: she'd been forged for war.
Some of his soldiers faltered, pulling their blades back instead of striking true. Others pressed too hard, bloodlust or ambition blinding them. He felt the tension ripple through the fight…obedience warring with something uglier.
Miran's voice echoed in his memory, low and insistent. She'll never stop unless you break her. Push her. Force her hand.
Kera's jaw tightened. His brother's hunger for war was no secret to him. But to let Miran's whispers steer him now? That would mean giving up the one thing Kera had clung to all these years: control.
And yet, standing here, watching her carve through his men, he felt something far more dangerous than Miran's schemes.
A pull.
It wasn't mercy that kept his blade sheathed. It wasn't politics. It was her.
She turned then, hair falling wild against her face. And her eyes found him.
The weight of that look pinned him in place. Fury, pure hatred, something hotter than either.
"Kera." His name cracked from her lips like a brand.
The sound of it burned more than the sight of her blade.
His hand tightened on his sword hilt, the instinct to fight roaring up, demanding release. But he forced it down. If he drew, the ground would drink until neither side could pull back. And if he drew against her…
No.
He loosened his grip and let the silence speak for him.
Her insult carried across the gap, bitter and sharp. Coward.
Let her think about it. Better a coward than a butcher. Better her hatred than her blood staining his hands.
Behind him, his men shifted, restless. They wanted orders. They wanted blood. Miran's shadow lingered in every eager stance. But Kera gave nothing.
Finally, he turned. A slow retreat. His soldiers followed, their footsteps uneven with frustration.
He didn't look back. Couldn't.
Because if he did, he might've broken the only rule he still believed in: never show her what she really was to him.
---
The council chamber stank of smoke and pine tar. Firelight threw hard shadows over stone walls. Her captains were already circling like caged hounds when she entered.
"They dared strike us on our own land!"
Jorren snarled, fist slamming the oak table. "It's a declaration of war. Answer them now or they'll think us weak."
"They'll march, Alpha," another muttered. "If we don't move first, we'll be fighting them on our doorsteps."
Areya sat, shoulders squared, jaw iron. The image of Kera at the ridge still burned behind her eyes. Watching. Not striking.
Jorren leaned forward, scar catching the firelight. "He's testing you. Show him you'll bleed for this land, or he'll keep pressing."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room, the hunger for blood thick in the air.
But then a quieter voice cut through. An older captain, hair streaked with grey, eyes sharp despite the years. "If Kera truly wanted you dead, Alpha, he would've drawn his blade himself."
The chamber stilled for a breath.
Some scoffed. Jorren barked a laugh. "Restraint? Don't fool yourself. It's arrogance. He thinks we're beneath him."
Areya let them argue, let their voices clang off the stone walls. But the grey-haired man's words burrowed under her skin.
No. She clenched her jaw. Restraint wasn't mercy. It wasn't doubt. It was an insult.
"They want war," she said at last, voice cutting clean through the din. "And they'll have it if they force my hand."
That earned roars of approval, steel ringing on wood as captains pounded their fists.
But beneath the firelight, she knew her truth.
This wasn't just war. This wasn't just politics.
It was personal.
She rose, cloak sweeping behind her.
"Double the patrols. Hold the border. The next time his warriors set foot here…they don't leave."
Her captains cheered.
But when the firelight caught her eyes, none of them saw the flicker she kept hidden.
Her blade still gleamed in the firelight when she dismissed her captains. Alone, she lingered by the war map, fingers tracing the jagged line of the border.
Twice she had met him. Twice he had walked away.
The next time, she swore, he would not leave untouched.