12. Chapter 12
B irdsong drifted through the open window, stirring Ren from sleep. She blinked against the morning light and remembered where she was. She sat up, recalling how she’d stumbled in after the baths last night, barely clean before collapsing into a deep sleep.
The room itself was plain by the standards of Pyraelia. Walls of pale stone, a single wardrobe carved from dark, unadorned wood, and a writing desk that bore only a tarnished candleholder and a half-empty inkpot.
The bed beneath her was an unfamiliar luxury.
Thick with layered quilts, the bed was large enough for her to stretch out comfortably.
For once in a very long time, she wasn’t waking up from a dirt floor, with cold earth pressing into her skin, or in a cheap tavern, drifting in and out of sleep to the laughter of drunkards and the muffled sounds of lovers through thin walls.
Here, Ren was wrapped in warmth, her cheek having laid against a pillow that smelled of sun-warmed linen.
Ren let out a slow, reluctant sigh, savoring the sensation as if it were a secret indulgence.
Not bad for a room meant for servants or common fae , she thought wryly, her gaze drifting to the simple silver pitcher and washbasin in the corner, and the low stool set near the window where faint tendrils of ivy crept along the sill .
A soft knock interrupted the quiet, and she fell back into the blankets with a sigh. The gruff voice of a guard at the door meant one thing and one thing only: time to dress for training.
Yesterday, as soon as they stepped out of the throne room, Talen pulled Ren aside and said, “You’re quick with a blade, but skill without discipline is a sure way to die.”
She’d accused him of being insufferably smug, but he hadn’t risen to the bait. Instead, he’d leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, that infuriatingly calm smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Train,” he pressed. “Hate me now for saying it, but you’ll thank me later.”
Ren slipped from the bed reluctantly. She avoided the full-length mirror for as long as she could, but necessity drew her before it.
Her eyes swept over her frame – a thin silhouette carved by hunger and hardship.
Her hips jutted sharply, shadows deepened beneath her amber eyes, and her hair hung in tangled, scraggly strands.
Her fingers brushed absently over the shrinking curve of her breast, marveling at how even that had withered away. She quickly banished the thought.
The way she looked was the last thing that mattered.
“Well, you’re a vision,” a voice drawled. “Assuming the vision came from a tavern floor after too much mead.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Ren hissed, dragging a hand down her face. “Can’t I wake up once without someone sneaking up on me?”
The tall wardrobe in the corner creaked, its carved rosewood face splitting into a smile that shimmered with faintly enchanted light. Its handles shifted like eyes narrowing in amusement.
“Oh good, she speaks,” the wardrobe murmured breezily. “With very foul language. Your mother would be ashamed.”
Ren stammered, “Y-you’re alive ?”
“Enchanted,” the wardrobe corrected. “Alive would imply I have to breathe through the stench coming off your boots. My name's Mirella. I manage wardrobes and the occasional existential crisis.”
Ren stared in disbelief, then rubbed at her eyes with both hands, as if to check if she was dreaming. “Of course my dresser talks. Why wouldn’t it?”
“Now that that is settled, shall we find you something to wear for the day? ”
Ren snapped back into action, pulling her nightgown over her head and letting it drop by her feet. She paused, turning away from Mirella. Can she see? “I’ve got it covered. But thank you.”
“After seeing your outfit of choice yesterday, you’re in desperate need for assistance.”
Ren gritted her teeth as she yanked down her pants. “If I’d known I was being judged for my attire, I’d have put on scented oil.”
Mirella’s door creaked open invitingly. “Too late for that, darling. But lucky for you, I make miracles happen.”
Ren tugged on the closest tunic Mirella begrudgingly offered, plain black, simple, but freshly pressed. After, she strapped her boots with quick fingers.
“I’m only going to train,” Ren muttered. With a practiced motion, she wove her hair into tight braids, pulling every stray strand from her face. “There’s no need to get fancy.”
Mirella gave a huff, drawers clacking in disapproval. “Training or not, you could at least pretend you weren’t raised by wolves.”
“I’m not here to impress anyone.”
“Clearly,” Mirella replied dryly. “But must you make it so obvious?”
Ren made for the door. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”
“Oh, anytime,” Mirella called after her sweetly. “Try not to get beaten senseless.”
Ren descended the grand staircase, a chill sweeping through her, the palace quiet but for distant footsteps and the soft murmur of handmaidens preparing tea or breakfast.
Outside, the training grounds sprawled beneath a lavender sky, the sun halfway rising over the horizon.
The space was immaculate, every flagstone swept clean, the sand of the sparring pits freshly raked into smooth lines.
Yet even here, where sweat and steel reigned, beauty had not been forgotten.
Marble statues lined the edges depicting warriors captured in eternal motion, their blades poised mid-strike, their faces carved with unyielding resolve.
Some were chipped with age, moss creeping into their creases, yet they stood as silent witnesses to every clash of blade and bruising blow that filled this space.
Ren’s gaze caught on Mount Solfira looming over Pyraelia, ever present .
Who in all the realms thought it wise to build a capital in the shadow of that beast? she thought bitterly, glaring up at the mountain’s jagged peak.
The grounds opened into a leveled expanse of packed earth bordered by tall stone walls and watchtowers, with weapon racks lining the perimeter and target dummies scattered. Fae soldiers stood at attention, their stances sharp, disciplined, almost unnervingly synchronized.
Ren joined the line, settling beside a male fae close to her height with cropped brown hair and steady brown eyes that flicked toward her in silent appraisal. His gaze dropped, and Ren could’ve sworn she caught the faintest roll of his eyes before he snapped his attention forward again.
She focused her gaze on the figure approaching the front of the line. The commander. Broad-shouldered, silver-cloaked, and radiating an authority that made the air itself still.
He stood tall and lean. Rough and battle-scarred, yet elegant in a way that only the fae could be. His hair was silver-streaked and pulled into a tight knot, and eyes the color of forged steel. A scar curved beneath one eye like a half-moon.
The fae commander paused where Ren stood and watched her with cool detachment, arms folded across his chest.
Ren met his gaze head-on, lifting her chin.
“Five laps. Then, combat forms.”
The fae responded immediately. Ren followed, and as she broke into a jog, her feet struck the packed earth in a steady rhythm, heart pounding, lungs clawing for air within minutes. Her muscles burned from the weight of yesterday’s bruises, but she didn’t slow.
Though she’d never admit it aloud, Talen was right. She needed every drop of sweat, every breath that stung like fire. She needed her body to obey because she needed every fragment of will she possessed to hunt those creatures.
With the other faes’ footsteps pounding around her, Ren surged forward, muscles coiled and ready, the world narrowing to the rhythm of her strides.
Beside her, the brown-haired fae male kept pace, too close.
Their shoulders nearly brushed with every turn, the space between them charged with unspoken challenge.
She pushed ahead, narrowing her eyes. A heartbeat later, he passed her again, silent and steady, as if taunting her with his effortless speed.
They traded the lead back and forth, neither willing to relent.
A blur of motion came to her right. A blonde fae male breezed past, far less graceful. But intentionally so. He clipped her shoulder with a nudge that sent her stumbling, barely catching her footing.
The bastard snickered.
Ren swore under her breath and shot him a venomous glare, only for the blonde to glance back and wink, a cocky smirk on his lips.
Oh, she was going to enjoy wiping that smirk clean off his pretty face.
Her breath came ragged, muscles burning with effort, but she pushed onward. Just as her legs threatened to give out, the run ended. She collapsed against a sturdy tree trunk, gasping for breath.
As she regained her breathing and braced herself for the next round, the brunette male fae across the yard shot her a scowl.
“Humans always start strong, full of noise and pride,” he drawled, straightening up. “Let’s see if you’re still standing by sundown, or if you’ll be crawling back to whatever mud hole they dragged you out of.”
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to be intimidated, or are you just trying to convince yourself?” Ren retorted, leaning against the tree.
He laughed bitterly. “You really think you belong here? You’re a mistake waiting to happen.”
Ren didn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his words. Instead, Ren whistled under her breath and bent to stretch her legs, imagining the bastard’s fingers cracking beneath her boot.
From the corner of her eye, two figures entered her line of vision, along the winding path leading from the Royal Gardens. Kaelin, and beside her, another fae female whose mouth was set in the kind of sneer that looked practiced from years of disdain.
Ren forced her jaw tight and looked away, burying herself in the steady rise and fall of her chest.
Kaelin let Esme’s chatter drone around her like a persistent gnat as she tipped back the last of her wine .