Chapter Ten
Blood and Steel
Kaan
THERE'S SOMETHING DEEPLY satisfying about watching someone's confidence crumble right before their eyes.
The moment when arrogance transforms into realization, then fear, and finally—my personal favorite—desperate survival instinct.
Some people call it cruelty. I prefer to think of it as educational.
Today's continuation of yesterday's lesson: don't challenge a Shadow Lord to a fucking duel.
"Again," I command, circling my wife as she picks herself up from the dirt for what must be the tenth time in the past hour. Sweat darkens her training clothes, her chest heaving with exertion. A fresh bruise blooms on her cheekbone where my practice sword caught her moments ago.
The training yard is more crowded than usual this morning.
After yesterday's initial confrontation drew attention, word spread quickly that the Shadow Lord and his new Light Court bride would be continuing their sparring sessions, and now half the court pretends to be engaged in their own training while watching our little performance from the corners of their eyes.
Nesilhan glares at me, golden eyes blazing with a hatred so pure it makes my shadows ripple with anticipation.
Blood trickles from a split in her lower lip, and I find myself transfixed by the crimson droplet, remembering the taste of that mouth, the softness of those lips against mine that one night, three nights ago.
My body responds instantly to the memory, a hunger rising that I immediately try to suppress.
This inconvenient desire for her is becoming a dangerous distraction.
"Pick up your sword," I tell her, tapping my practice blade against my boot to mask my momentary lapse in concentration. "Or are you surrendering already? I thought Light Court warriors had more stamina."
"I haven't begun to fight yet," she responds, her voice steady despite her ragged breathing. She retrieves her fallen practice sword, assuming a fighting stance that's far too polished for a diplomat's daughter.
Interesting. More pieces of the puzzle that is my mysterious bride.
"Then stop holding back," I taunt her, shadows swirling around my feet. "Show me what you're truly capable of, hatun . Or is this pathetic display really your best effort?"
Her eyes narrow slightly, the only warning before she lunges forward with startling speed. Her blade arcs toward my head in a strike that would have decapitated me if I hadn't blocked it at the last second. The force of the blow vibrates up my arm, stronger than any of her previous attacks.
"There she is," I laugh, genuinely delighted. "I was beginning to think my wife was as dull as she is disobedient."
We exchange a rapid series of blows, the wooden practice swords cracking against each other loud enough to draw attention from across the yard.
She moves with unexpected grace, her footwork betraying years of formal training.
Each strike flows into the next with liquid precision, forcing me to pay genuine attention for the first time since we began.
"Who taught you to fight like this?" I ask, blocking a particularly vicious thrust aimed at my throat. "The Academy doesn't train diplomats to kill."
"My father believed in a well-rounded education," she replies, spinning away from my counterattack with irritating agility.
"Your father," I repeat, testing the bond between us for any emotional reaction.
I get only muted echoes—frustration, perhaps, but filtered through whatever barrier she's erected between us.
For days now, I've sensed only these dampened signals from her—as if she's found some way to shield her thoughts and feelings from me.
The mystery of it is almost as infuriating as her continued defiance.
"How thoughtful of him to prepare you so thoroughly for marriage to a monster. "
I smile then, a cold, predatory thing that makes her grip tighten on her sword. "He taught me to survive in hostile environments."
"And are you surviving, wife?" I circle her slowly, shadows gathering more densely around me. "Or thriving? Because I've noticed you've adapted to Shadow Court life with surprising ease."
It's true. In the few days since our wedding, she's taken control of the household with ruthless efficiency.
The servants both fear and respect her, the court ladies watch her with jealous eyes, and even some of my advisors have begun treating her with cautious deference.
It's not what I expected from my broken bride.
"I adapt to whatever prison I find myself in," she replies, launching a flurry of attacks that force me backward several steps. "It's a skill."
Her blade catches me across the forearm, a genuine hit that will leave a bruise. A murmur ripples through our audience. No one has landed a blow on me in training for decades.
"First blood to you," I acknowledge, feeling a surge of something dangerously close to pride. "Shall we escalate this properly?"
According to Shadow Court training protocols, once first blood is drawn by a challenger, both combatants may enhance their weapons with magic. It's an old tradition, rarely invoked, but technically, she's earned the right.
Without waiting for her response, I channel shadow magic into my blade, turning the wooden practice sword into something darker, heavier, edged with writhing darkness.
"You're following protocol," she observes, and I catch a flicker of something—anticipation?—through our muted bond.
"I'm honoring tradition," I correct her. "Besides, in a real fight, I wouldn't limit myself to mere steel. Would you?"
Her eyes flicker with calculation. Then she closes them briefly, and when they open again, a faint golden glow emanates from her practice sword—controlled, deliberate, not the raw burst of power I expected.
Well, well. The kitten has claws after all.
"By all means," I gesture expansively, "show me what light magic can do against shadow."
The next exchange is faster, more lethal.
Her light-infused blade hisses where it meets my shadow-enhanced weapon, small explosions of power erupting at each contact point.
The very air around us is charged with opposing magic, raising the hairs on my arms and creating a vortex of energy that both repels and attracts.
She fights with a focus that would be admirable if it weren't directed at separating my head from my shoulders. Each movement reveals more of her true nature—precise, lethal, nothing like the composed diplomat's daughter she pretends to be.
"You know," I remark conversationally, as if we're having tea rather than trying to maim each other, "most brides spend their first week of marriage arranging flowers or planning dinners.
Mine apparently prefers attempting to murder me in broad daylight.
I'm not sure whether to be offended or flattered. "
"Be whatever you want," she retorts, barely avoiding a strike that would have taken her ear off. "I couldn't care less."
"Oh, but you do care," I counter, feeling a surge of malicious joy at the opening she's given me.
"You care very much about what I am to you now.
What was his name again? Oh yes—Aslan. Tell me, do you still see his face when you close your eyes?
Do you remember the sounds he made as my shadows tore him apart? "
Something wild and dangerous flares in her eyes, even through her shields, I sense the spike of raw fury. Perfect.
She attacks with renewed intensity, her strikes no longer measured and controlled but powered by emotion. It makes her stronger but less precise—exactly what I wanted.
"He died like a dog," I continue, blocking her increasingly aggressive attacks. "Whimpering. Begging. Calling your name until the very end."
The words taste like ash in my mouth. Aslan died too quickly for any last words, his death clean and efficient. But she doesn't know that, and the lie serves its purpose; her next attack is pure emotion, all technique forgotten in her rage.
I sidestep easily, hooking my ankle behind hers and sending her crashing to the ground. Before she can recover, I'm on her, my shadow-sword at her throat, my knee pressing into her sternum.
"And now you're in the dirt again," I whisper, leaning close enough that only she can hear. "Just like that one night in my bed. Tell me, wife, do you dream of him while I touch you? Does it ease your conscience to pretend that wasn't your pulse racing under my hands? "
Her response is unexpected—she laughs, a bitter sound with no humor in it. "Is that what this is about? Your wounded pride because I don't melt at your touch like your whores do?"
It's a direct hit, more effective than any sword stroke. I mask my surprise with a smile that shows too many teeth. "My pride isn't what's wounded, hatun . But you will be if you continue to provoke me."
"Then kill me," she challenges, golden eyes boring into mine. "End this farce of a marriage. Or are you afraid to lose your shiny new political asset?"
I lean closer until our noses nearly touch, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Death would be a mercy you haven't earned yet, hatun . Besides, I'm not nearly done playing with you."
With a controlled surge of light magic, more measured than her earlier display—she creates a barrier that forces me backward. I roll to my feet, genuinely impressed by her tactical use of power, just in time to meet her renewed attack.
Our audience has grown, courtiers abandoning any pretense of their own training to watch the Shadow Lord and his bride try to destroy each other. I'm vaguely aware of Emir at the edge of the yard, his expression concerned, and my advisors nearby, whispering among themselves.
Let them watch. Let them see what happens when light thinks it can challenge shadow.