The sun had only begun to tilt toward the western towers when Borgo entered the southern training courtyard. Here, the air always tasted of sap, sweat, and iron—the raw smell of discipline. Towering trees stood like patient witnesses, their roots gripping the stone platform as if holding secrets beneath.
Three young men already waited for him—Aurun, the illegitimate son of the Royal Legislator, lean and bright-eyed; and the twin sons of the king's favourite courtesan, Dheer and Viren, both known for their agility and silver tongues. They were not nobles, yet not commoners either—caught in the soft grey space of the palace hierarchy. Borgo trusted them more than most.
"Late today, Vajradeha," Aurun called, flipping a wooden staff between his fingers.
"I was hoping you'd bring breakfast at least," Dheer added.
"Or a dramatic entrance," Viren smirked. "You disappoint us."
Borgo only cracked his knuckles. "Then I'll amuse you with effort."
They laughed. Only people who were not threatened by Borgo's bloodline could laugh this loosely around him.
Training began—sweeping strikes, footwork drills, bare-knuckle counters. Borgo moved like a tightening storm cloud, steady and gathering force. The others matched him, each strike echoing across the courtyard stones.
And then the steps came.
Not hurried. Not slow. Just deliberate enough to make all four boy's freezes.
Princess Shuri had arrived.
A magnificent beauty wrapped in lavender silks embroidered with silver vines; she walked with the confidence of someone who believed the world should tilt when she lifted her chin. Her hair was braided like a coil of midnight, pinned with moonstone.
Behind her trailed two maids, though she did not seem to need guards—her ego itself was Armor.
Aurun muttered under his breath, "Storm incoming."
"Monsoon," Dheer corrected.
"Typhoon," Viren whispered.
Borgo continued striking the wooden stump with clean, savage precision.
Shuri stepped onto the courtyard tiles, her gaze sharp, disapproving, yet hiding something unspoken.
"Brother," she said, her voice smooth but chilled. "I see thou art still thumping trees as though they be rebels needing taming."
Borgo did not look at her. "Better a tree than a person."
A ghost of annoyance flickered across her face.
She clasped her hands before her. "Pray tell me, why didst thou not come to greet me upon my return? I hear my absence lasted seven weeks, not seven hours."
The boys behind Borgo glanced sidelong at each other. This was dangerous ground—Shuri's ego was legendary. She tolerated Borgo only because her mother had wed the king after Borgo's mother died. Acceptance, however, was another story.
"I was training," Borgo replied simply.
"Training?" she echoed, stepping closer. "Thou hadst time to greet the stable boys, aye, and to pat Vyom's ridiculous horse, yet no time to honor thine own sister with thy presence?"
"She is your sister," Viren whispered dramatically behind him.
"She does not accept that fact," Dheer whispered back.
Shuri ignored them.
"And now," she continued, her tone dipped in honey but sharp as an icicle, "I hear whispers along the palace walls."
Borgo raised an eyebrow. "The walls have mouths now?"
"Mock not my words." She stepped forward until her shadow touched his boot. "They whisper of a woman spending a night within thy chambers."
Aurun choked on nothing.
Borgo paused mid-strike.
"So," Shuri said triumphantly. "Thou dost not deny it."
"I don't acknowledge nonsense," Borgo replied, returning to the stump. The boys smothered snickers.
But he struck too hard.
The thick tree trunk, wider than a man's chest, cracked clean through and fell with a deep thud—splitting as neatly as if carved by a divine blade.
Shuri jolted.
Her maids gasped.
Aurun whispered, "Well. that's one way to answer."
Borgo turned to her, wiping sap from his knuckles. "The inside walls are unreliable creatures, Princess. They also gossip about prized male escorts attending your court every night."
Shuri's eyes widened—offended, scandalized, and furious all at once. Her voice rose, trembling with outrage.
"Cross not thy tongue with mine, thou filthy, insolent bastard!" she shouted, her Elizabethan diction sharpening into a whip. "Thou art but a stray wolf offered a prince's cloak—forget not who stands above thee!"
The courtyard fell silent.
Even the birds on the trees stilled.
Borgo did not shout back. He only stared at her—deep, unblinking, cold as forged obsidian. The air between them thickened, heavy enough to choke.
Shuri faltered.
His stare wasn't the anger of a rival.
It was the silent judgment of a predator deciding whether the creature before it was worth the kill.
A shiver ran down her spine.
For a very strange second… she looked almost small.
Borgo finally spoke, voice low.
"If you came here to quarrel, I'm busy."
Shuri inhaled sharply, found her pride, and lifted her chin. "Thou shalt rue thy insolence, Borgohain."
"Maybe," he said, picking up another practice blade, "but not today."
She exhaled through her nose—half fury, half frustration—then spun on her heel and strode away, silks whipping behind her.
The moment she was gone, Dheer murmured, "Your family dinners must be amazing."
Auron added, "I'd pay to watch them."
Viren nodded solemnly. "Truly a masterpiece of politics, respect, and attempted murder."
Borgo only raised his sword again.
"Again," he ordered.
And they trained until the sun died behind the palace towers—while whispers of Shuri's anger drifted through the royal halls like a coming storm.
IN THE HANGING PORCH — A BREATHER
The water still clung to Borgo skin as he stepped out from the marble bathing chamber, droplets racing down the grooves of hardened muscle. The steam slipped into the fading light as he walked barefoot onto the hanging balcony—an open crescent carved high along the western face of the palace.
From here, the world looked as though the sky had spilled molten gold across the mountains. The horizon shimmered, its edges lost in layers of rose and silver mist. The wind brushed his damp hair back, carrying the scent of incense from distant temple courtyards and the distant murmur of palace life settling for the night.
Borgo stood topless against the falling sun, eyes fixed on the last amber line sinking into the hills. His breath steadied. For a rare moment, he allowed himself to feel small—just a figure looking into a world much older than kings, crowns, or the chaos of power.
Then—
Footsteps. Fast. Uneven. Familiar.
Bori.
The servant nearly skidded as he reached the balcony opening. When he saw Borgo bare-chested, he immediately spun around, staring rigidly at the far wall.
"P-pardon… p-pardon, my lord," he stammered, palms pressed together. "Bori begs forgiveness. Bori did not know the young lord was… um… unwrapped."
Borgo raised a brow. "I'm standing on a balcony, not the queen's bed. Speak."
Bori remained turned away, his voice higher than usual.
"His Majesty—the King—wishes to see the young lord at court tomorrow morning."
The evening breeze danced over the balcony rail. Borgo didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just continued watching the last shard of sun sink behind the hills.
He said nothing long enough that Bori shifted uncomfortably.
"My lord?"
No answer.
"My lord—"
"Heard you," Borgo said at last, the words dropping like stone. "And I am not going."
Bori's head jerked in shock, though he still kept his eyes tightly away from Borgo's torso.
"Sire… Bori fears he did not hear correctly—"
"I said I'm not going," Borgo repeated. "I leave tonight."
Bori's jaw dropped. "Tonight? My lord cannot—His Majesty commanded—"
"I care little for royal commands," Borgo cut in. The breeze lifted his wet hair as if agreeing with him. "Now that I know what must be done, I will not lose a single breath. . The cure of Vyom lies in the Sacred Land of Ancestors. Waiting is death."
Bori swallowed, anxiety tight in his throat. "But, my lord, if you depart without permission—Bori fears—"
"I will not waste time bowing before the king," Borgo said, voice sharpening.
Bori hesitated, then whispered, "It is not duty alone that rushes the young lord… it is curiosity."
That made Borgo turn toward him, amused despite himself.
"You think so?"
"Bori knows so," the servant said, risking a glance over his shoulder. He caught sight of Borgo's bare, carved chest and immediately swiveled back to the wall. "The young lord burns more from longing than purpose. Perhaps both."
Borgo chuckled—a low, tired rumble.
"Hmm… Truly hopeless without you, Bori, am I not?"
The servant allowed himself a shy, proud smile.
"Bori thinks the young lord is hopeless indeed."
Borgo stepped away from the balcony rail, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. The sun had dipped. Only a band of twilight remained.
"Was that all?" Borgo asked.
"No, my lord…" Bori straightened. "Bori heard that my lord's beloved uncle Lord Laskin—Supreme Knight of the Realm—returns this night from his months-long campaign."
Borgo froze.
Then joy lit his face—a rare warmth breaking through the cold exterior.
"Uncle Laskin returns?" he repeated, disbelief softening into relief. "After all these months?"
"Yes, my lord."
Borgo exhaled, a weight he didn't know he carried easing from his chest.
Laskin—who had found him in the lowest quarters of the palace when he was a child of a low-order courtesan. Laskin—who had put a sword in his hand when others put chains. Laskin—who had trained him, tested him, saved him from becoming invisible.
"He will be crossing the northern ridge by midnight," Bori added. "If the young lord leaves tonight, paths may cross."
"Good," Borgo said softly. "Let them."
He stepped past Bori, the servant still staring dutifully at the wall, and walked into his chamber. The braziers burned low, their light flickering across armor stands and books left open on prophecy and ancient cures. Borgo pulled on a loose shirt and fastened the first buttons, chest still exposed to the cool night air.
His fingers stilled.
Not at the button.
But at a memory.
Last night.
The high garden.
Moonlight.
Warmth.
Breath shared too closely.
A name whispered into the dark—Lira.
He swallowed.
He had not seen her since.
Had not spoken a word.
He owed her apology.
Explanation.
Something—anything—to soften the raw edge of what they had almost fallen into.
He moved to the door.
"My lord—where is the young lord going?" Bori asked cautiously.
"To see someone," Borgo said without turning.
Bori blinked. "A woman?"
Borgo paused just long enough to let silence answer for him.
Then he stepped out into the hallway.
"And Bori?" Borgo said without looking back.
"Yes, my lord?"
"If I am not here by dawn… tell the king I've already begun what he should have started years ago."
The door closed behind him.
Leaving Bori alone in the quiet chamber, staring at the balcony where the prince had stood moments ago—caught between sunset and a danger he willingly walked toward.
Borgo walked into the corridors, past torchlight and shadows, searching for Lira.
The night swallowed him whole.
And somewhere ahead of him…
she waited.