On the way to the training grounds, Marcus was both excited and nervous. The air itself felt charged, as though every echoing footstep carried both anticipation and dread. It was an unfamiliar blend, a flutter in his chest that he hadn't felt in years. Usually, his mood was far more somber, ironclad in determination, untouched by joy. But now, beneath the marble arches and golden torchlight, his heart raced with something dangerously close to hope.
The echoes of conversation and laughter between the two soon-to-be-wed filled the corridors, the sound weaving through the marble halls like music, proud, bright, and painfully mortal. It reminded Marcus of a life unburdened by expectation, one he had long buried beneath duty and failure.
But on the way, a sudden thought slipped into Marcus's mind, halting his stride.
"Say, Michelle?"
"Yes, Marcus?"
"How did you find out that Gemma is to be queen whilst on your way here?" he asked, his brow furrowing as he realised he had nearly forgotten such a pivotal detail.
Michelle smiled faintly. "Ah, for that, it's probably better if my guard formally reintroduces herself."
She gestured toward the woman walking a few paces behind her, silent, alert, the faint glint of steel visible at her hip. At Michelle's beckoning, the guard stepped forward, lowering her head briefly before speaking.
"I am the first spear of Mistress Michelle Moxclave, the former Gold Rank mercenary. Knight of speed, technique, and durability. My name is Ariadne Hourne of House Moxclave."
She said this with her hand to her chest, an oath-like motion, too graceful for a former mercenary, too natural for someone raised from the dirt. Marcus studied her posture; it was confident, almost regal.
And then, that name. Hourne.
He glanced sideways. Hudson's face twitched, his lips threatening mutiny as laughter built behind them. The puzzle pieces fell neatly into place.
"Hudson Hourne," Marcus began slowly, "how close are you to my fiancée's guard?"
Hudson grinned, unabashed. "Why, she's my most adorable little sister."
Marcus froze, blinking once in defeated realization. Of course. This was the "certain information" Hudson had teased him about earlier, that smug, insufferable glint in his eye now making far too much sense.
The prince sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "I see. The world truly is smaller than it ought to be."
The corridor erupted in laughter, Michelle's soft and knowing, Hudson's loud and unrestrained, Ariadne's composed but audible. For the first time in a long while, Marcus found himself laughing too. It wasn't the laugh of a prince or a soldier, but that of a man, someone briefly freed from his own shadow.
When they entered the training hall, the scent of oiled steel and dust greeted him like an old friend. The vast chamber was empty, its high vaulted ceiling swallowing sound, its rows of weapon racks gleaming in the torchlight. Marcus inhaled deeply. He could almost feel the ghosts of his past attempts watching him, countless hours spent chasing perfection that never came. He walked the perimeter slowly, fingers brushing along the cold hilts and polished handles, as if searching for something buried not in the racks, but within himself.
Michelle observed quietly, her gaze tender yet sharp.
"Pick the sword," she said suddenly.
Marcus turned, surprised. "Why the sword? What difference does it make?"
"The body knows what the mind does not," she replied evenly. "Before you started spiraling-"
"I wasn't spiraling," Marcus interrupted, though the faint edge of guilt in his voice betrayed him.
Michelle's eyes narrowed. "As I was saying, before you began spiraling, you paused over the sword for longer than you think. Instinctively, you knew it suited you best."
Marcus hesitated, then reached for the blade. The hilt fit perfectly in his palm, not heavy, not light, but balanced, as though made for his hand alone. It was a simple longsword, plain steel with faint etching along the fuller. He had studied its every angle in theory: grip, stance, cut, thrust. The mind of a scholar, the heart of a fighter he never became.
Now, perhaps, both halves could meet.
He took his stance, just as the manuals demanded. Sword tip level with his sternum. Hips square. Weight slightly forward. And then, he moved, hips before hands, shoulders steady, blade cutting through the air with precision. To an onlooker, the form was flawless. But Michelle saw it, the stiffness, the hesitation between breath and motion.
"Why do you do that?" she asked, breaking the silence.
Marcus paused mid-swing. "Do what?"
"You force your body to obey the mind. But true strength isn't born from obedience, it's born from instinct. You think too much, Marcus."
"I'm trying to have perfect technique," he replied defensively. "At least that much I can control."
Michelle tilted her head, watching him. "Remember what I said, your body knows what the mind does not. Stop fighting yourself. Let instinct guide you."
Marcus breathed out, uncertain. "And how am I meant to do that?"
In answer, Michelle bent to pick up a thin branch from the edge of the courtyard. She gave it a few experimental twirls, her grip casual, a dancer holding death in her fingers.
"Well then," she said, smiling faintly. "Come at me."
Marcus blinked. "You can't be serious."
Her stance answered for her. She radiated calm violence, a quiet promise that she could end the duel before it began. Before Marcus could speak again, Michelle vanished from sight.A blur. A whisper. And then, pain. A sharp sting in his shoulder as the twig connected, precise and merciless.
"One," she said simply.
Marcus gritted his teeth, turned, and attacked. At first, he clung to the form he knew, textbook strikes, defensive pivots, footwork by the book. Michelle danced through them effortlessly, her stick a blur of feints and flicks, marking invisible cuts across his armorless body.
"Forty-seven," she said calmly, stepping aside as he stumbled.
Marcus panted, frustration and exhaustion melding into desperation. Sweat dripped down his jaw. His arms screamed in protest. Still he pressed on.
By the hundredth "death," his technique had crumbled, leaving only raw instinct and survival.And that was when something changed. His movements grew less deliberate, more fluid, more primal. His body began to read hers, reacting not by thought but by feel. The sword no longer weighed him down. It moved with him. Michelle's eyes narrowed. There. The shift she had been waiting for. For twenty more exchanges, she pressed harder, faster, each strike testing, shaping. Then she altered her rhythm, her twig cutting in from a different angle.
Marcus felt it before he saw it. His blade moved on its own. Steel met wood. A clean, perfect cut. Silence fell. Even the air seemed to still. Marcus stood frozen, sword extended, eyes wide with disbelief.
And then, he smiled. Not triumphant, not proud, but whole. The tremor in his wrist, the heat in his chest, the ache in his lungs — all of it sang in unison.
Something deep inside him stirred. A rhythm. A resonance. His first discipline, unnamed yet undeniable, had finally answered his call.
Michelle lowered the splintered twig, eyes gleaming. "One hundred and fifty-eight," she said softly. "You died one hundred and fifty-eight times, and on the one hundred and fifty-ninth… you found your discipline."
She smiled faintly, the kind that carried both pride and melancholy. "It's rare, what you have. Be proud, Marcus. You were never weak, only waiting." He tried to answer, but the fatigue swallowed him whole. The sword slipped from his grasp, and he collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground. Michelle exhaled slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "No need to see me out," she murmured toward the balcony above, where a silent figure watched from the shadows. "I'll find my own way."
Then she turned, her steps light, almost humming with satisfaction. Behind her, the young prince lay still, yet for the first time in his life, he dreamed not of failure, but of potential.