Chapter 8
The tunic and pants left for me were simple but practical—fitted, lightweight, flexible. There was no loose fabric that could be used as leverage in a fight, no ornamental details to hinder movement. Whoever had selected them knew what they were doing.
As I stepped onto the training field, I immediately caught sight of Varyth and Darian sparring with swords, a blur of precision and steel. Their movements were swift, fluid, deadly, each clash ringing through the open air.
Darian, apparently fully recovered, fought with flashing speed and playful ferocity, his strikes rapid yet infused with an effortless grace.
Shirtless, his tawny skin gleamed with sweat, muscles flexing beneath intricate tattoos—vines that curled and twisted across his torso and down both arms, as if the forest itself had claimed him.
Varyth, in contrast, was pure control. He had stripped down to his white tunic, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the fabric clinging to his muscled frame, damp with sweat.
His sword swung with measured accuracy, every attack calculated, efficient, unforgiving.
There was no wasted motion, no unnecessary flourishes, just lethal skill honed to perfection.
I slowed my steps, taking in the way they fought, the way they read each other’s movements.
A final blow sent Darian staggering back a step, though he laughed. “You know, you could at least pretend to struggle.”
Varyth lowered his blade. “If I did, would you believe it?”
Darian rolled his eyes, and then he saw me. “Ah, our guest has arrived.”
Varyth turned, gaze cutting over me with the sharpness of a blade. I felt him catalogue every breath, every unconscious tell, unseen calculations ticking though his mind.
“You look prepared,” he said, his tone betraying nothing of his thoughts.
I rolled my shoulders. “I am.”
Varyth stepped back, sheathing his blade with a fluid motion. “We’ll start with hand-to-hand combat,” he said. “Dariandralis will be your opponent. I’ll observe.”
Darian was still grinning. His face was rounder than Varyth’s, a contrast of warmth to the High Lord’s carved elegance, freckled and sun-kissed from time spent training outdoors.
Ruggedly handsome in that effortless way, he had a light scruff along his jaw, the kind that suggested he didn’t always bother to shave unless someone made him.
He bounced on his toes, his sandy hair falling across his brow. There was no malice in his expression, just eager anticipation, a puppy waiting for play.
The earth beneath us was packed firm, scuffed with countless footprints of previous combatants. The air smelled of dust and sweat, the familiar scent of training grounds everywhere, regardless of realm.
Darian’s smile was all boyish charm. “Don’t worry,” he said, stretching his arms. “I’ll go easy on you.”
I arched an eyebrow, annoyance cutting through my nerves. “Please don’t.”
The second the words left my mouth, Darian clicked into place.
That easy smile still played on his lips, but his expression turned assessing. There was a subtle change in his stance—feet planted more firmly, weight balanced, hands loose but ready. A predator hiding behind laughter.
We circled each other, a cautious dance of assessment. I watched his movements, searching for patterns, for tells. He was bigger than me, stronger, but there was a looseness to his posture that hinted at overconfidence. I could use that.
“First to pin?” Darian asked, shifting on his feet.
I nodded, and he lunged without warning. He was fast, aggressive. He came at me with unrelenting force, each step meant to drive me back, to overwhelm. I didn’t fight back, not yet. Instead, I evaded every strike. I let him chase, let him think I was struggling to keep up.
He threw a punch aimed at my ribs, but I twisted away. Another aimed for my shoulder. I ducked. His fist sailed through the air above me.
“Come on, little human,” he taunted. “Did no one ever teach you that you actually have to throw a punch to win?”
He lunged forward again, more confident, more reckless.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I watched—studied.
He was much larger than me, muscled in a way that spoke to strength as much as speed.
Not the kind of bulk that slowed a fighter down, no, he was built for the battlefield.
Scars littered his skin, pale slashes across bronzed flesh, each one a testament to battles survived.
He was no stranger to pain. No stranger to war.
My gaze caught on one in particular, a brutal scar carved clean across the centre of his chest, jagged and deep.
His movements were raw power, his footwork strong but predictable. Every punch he threw had force behind it, but it also had weight, meaning he committed to every blow.
I stepped back, letting him close the distance again. “Tell me about the attack yesterday.”
Darian’s rhythm didn’t falter, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. “What about it?”
Another dodge, another feint. “That wolf thing. Torrath. It knew my scent.” I circled left, forcing him to turn. “It wasn’t hunting randomly.”
“Monsters are like that,” he said, throwing a combination that I slipped past. “Real bloodhounds when they want to be.”
“Bullshit.” I began testing him, throwing light, almost careless strikes. “It spoke about its master. About taking me back to him.”
Darian’s grin flickered. “You’re reading too much into monster chatter. They like to sound important.”
I pressed forward, testing his guard with a series of sloppy strikes. “Lord Ashterion. The Lord of Murder Wolves.”
He blocked them all, of course, but each movement taught me. “Look, Isara—”
“What does he want with me?” I swept low, aiming for his legs. He jumped back, but his usual easy confidence was cracking. “What makes me so fucking interesting that nightmare creatures are willing to breach Varyth’s precious wards?”
“You’re overthinking.” Darian caught my wrist as I threw another lazy punch, but instead of pinning me, he hesitated. “It’s not—it’s complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it.” I twisted free and put space between us again. “I heard Varyth talking about my capabilities. What I might become.”
Darian’s face was flushed now, sweat beading along his hairline. But it wasn’t from exertion. It was from the way I kept pushing, kept demanding answers while I systematically picked apart his defences.
“The crossing changed you,” he said finally, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Sometimes humans develop minor abilities. Healing faster, sensing magic—”
“Minor abilities don’t make ancient lords send shapeshifting assassins.” I feinted right, then drove my elbow toward his ribs. He blocked, but barely. “What kind of power are we talking about?”
“I don’t—” Darian’s guard dropped slightly as he struggled to answer. “It’s not like that. The Veil doesn’t just hand out party tricks. When it marks someone, really marks them, it’s because—”
A whistle pierced the air.
Both of us froze. Darian’s mouth snapped shut so fast I heard his teeth click.
Varyth stood at the edge of the training ground, arms crossed, silver eyes burning with warning. He hadn’t moved from his spot, but the whistle had been precise, commanding.
Darian was entirely silent as he launched into his next attack.
But I had found a pattern. He favoured his right foot before every heavy attack. Every time he prepared for a blow, he shifted his stance minutely, telegraphing his next move.
He thought I was struggling. He thought I was on the edge of defeat.
I had learned long ago that people fought differently when they believed they were winning. When they were comfortable.
They got sloppy. They got confident. They left themselves open.
Darian was comfortable.
That was his mistake.
His next punch came faster, more aggressive, his confidence building with each moment I stayed on the defensive. As he lunged forward, I caught the telltale shift of his weight, the slight hesitation before his right foot planted.
Instead of retreating as I had been, I surged forward, slipping inside his guard before he could adjust. In that split second, I saw his eyes widen with confusion.
Too late. I was already moving.
My body didn’t hesitate. It remembered. It always did.
I twisted, ducking beneath his outstretched arm and pivoting swiftly behind him. My fingers caught his wrist mid-strike, my foot hooked around his ankle.
The world slowed. Not in the way battle always did. Not in the way the body braced for impact. No, this was more. A hum beneath my skin. A knowing. I could feel each individual muscle moving with a smoothness I’d never experienced before.
Before he could recover, I drove my shoulder into his back, twisting his captured arm behind him as we fell.
The impact knocked the breath from him in a satisfying whoosh as we hit the ground, my weight pinning him, my knee pressed against the small of his back, his arm twisted at an angle that wasn’t quite painful but made movement impossible.
For a heartbeat, silence hung over the training yard. Then Darian let out a startled laugh, tapping the ground with his free hand in surrender.
“Well, fuck me.” He gasped, still winded. “That was... unexpected.”
I released him, rising to my feet in one fluid motion. My breath came fast, but I wasn’t tired. My limbs thrummed with unfamiliar strength. Like I’d only now remembered what I was built for.
Darian rolled onto his back, chuckling. His russet eyes gleamed with genuine delight. “Where the hell did you learn to fight like that?”
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I had a good teacher.”
Darian beamed up at me, extending his hand. I helped him to his feet, and he brushed the dust from his clothing with exaggerated motions.
“A good teacher?” He snorted. “That was brilliant. You let me think I had you, didn’t you? Clever.”
I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. Darian’s enthusiasm was infectious, his complete lack of wounded pride undeniably endearing.
“I find it’s usually better when your opponent underestimates you,” I said, rolling my shoulders to release the tension.
From the edge of the ring, Varyth was watching me. Like he had seen ability he hadn’t accounted for, and now he was adjusting the entire board.
“Again,” he commanded, his voice carrying across the training field. “This time, with weapons.”
Darian groaned dramatically, “Give a male a chance to recover his dignity, High Lord.”
“Your dignity was lost long before this,” Varyth replied dryly, but there was a hint of amusement in his tone.
He turned to me. “Choose your weapon.”
I approached the rack, fingers ghosting over familiar hilts. Spears, longswords, staffs.
Daggers. My hands hovered a beat too long.
His gaze prickled across my skin before I even looked up. I closed my fingers around a short sword. Not my best. Not my worst.
I braced myself, releasing a slow breath, before finally meeting his stare. “Something wrong?”
“You hesitate.”
“I’m considering my options.”
“You pretend to.” The words were soft, almost lazy, but they curled like smoke between us.
I forced a breath, tilting my chin to meet that intensity head-on. “You think you know me so well?”
“I think you’re exhausting,” he said flatly, moving toward the weapon rack himself. “Every conversation is a battle. Every question is an interrogation. You fight shadows that aren’t even there yet.”
“Shadows like shapeshifting wolves that breach your supposedly impenetrable wards?” I snapped back, raising the sword between us. “Shadows like ancient lords who want to kidnap me for reasons you won’t explain?”
“You want explanations? Fine.” He turned to face me, eyes blazing. “When you crossed the Veil, it caused a ripple. I felt it. A disturbance in the magic itself.”
My stomach dropped. “What kind of ripple?”
“The kind that announces something powerful has arrived. Something new.” He stepped into a fighting stance, blade raised.
“I don’t know if the other courts felt it, but if they did.
That could be why Ashterion sent his creature.
Or it could be entirely unrelated. Our courts have a. .. complex history.”
“Complex how?”
“The kind of complex that involves centuries of political manoeuvring.” His mouth curved in a humourless smile. “Lords don’t need magical ripples to find reasons to antagonise each other.”
I processed this, frustration building in my chest. “So you’re saying this could all be coincidence? That I’m just caught in the middle of some fae pissing contest?”
“Possible. Though unlikely, given what I sensed when I pulled you from the Veil.”
“Then why haven’t you made me use it yet?” I demanded, circling him slowly. “This supposed power that’s so fucking interesting everyone wants a piece of it. Why am I still stumbling around blind?”
Varyth’s expression darkened. “Because you’re changing. Your body is still shifting into its fae form. Any attempt to force magic through you before that process is complete might simply kill you.”
The casual way he said it made my pulse spike. “You’d probably like that, wouldn’t you? One less exhausting human to deal with.”
“Contrary to what you might believe, I don’t make a habit of killing people under my protection.” His voice was arctic. “It’s terrible for morale.”
“How considerate of you.”
“I thought so.”
We stared at each other across the training yard, tension crackling between us like lightning.
Darian straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Round two, then?” But his gaze flicked toward Varyth, clearly hoping for a reprieve.
I crossed my arms. “And what makes you think I can’t handle whatever this is?”
“Fear makes people reckless. It makes them run when they should stand, fight when they should yield.”
“You assume I fear anything at all.”
“No.” He leaned forward slightly. “I think you fear what you’ll become when you stop running.”
The words hit deeper than they should have. He wasn’t wrong. The thought of letting go completely, of embracing whatever transformation was happening to me, it terrified me more than any monster ever could.
“I suppose you’ll see.” I stepped back with a flick of my wrist, letting the blade sing through the air as I moved toward the weapon rack. “Try to keep up, then.”
Varyth chuckled, the sound deep and resonant, and danger lurked beneath it.
A challenge.
A promise.