Chapter 13 #4
Other warriors pause too—a glance toward the noble party, curiosity slipping into their movements.
Garrick notices. “You waiting for an invitation?”
His voice cuts through the hall, sharp and commanding. Several warriors snap their attention back to their sparring partners.
“Get back to training. If you’ve got time to stare, you’ve got time to move your feet.”
A few quick murmurs, the shuffle of boots, the sharp clash of steel as those who had hesitated refocus. I adjust my stance, gripping my blade a little tighter.
The mat shifts beneath me as I reset—muscles humming, grip tightening on the blade.
I don’t look toward the entrance. I don’t need to. I can hear them. I can feel their eyes on me. Lord Toren and Lady Evelyne Hale, standing with Thane and the others, evaluating.
Their voices carry through the expansive space.
And I know without looking that she is standing too close to him.
Because I’ve noticed every time Lady Evelyne places her hand on Thane’s arm. A lingering touch. A casual brush of fingers against his sleeve. A deliberate move into his space—one he doesn’t react to, but doesn’t stop either.
It makes my blood boil.
I set my jaw, refocusing on Taila. She’s fast, sharp, relentless. I need to be faster.
I lunge.
Steel rings against steel as I drive her back, pressing harder, testing her defenses. She ducks under my swing and counters with a low strike. I twist away, boots skimming the mat, my body moving before my mind catches up.
My blade flashes as I retaliate, a sharp thrust aimed toward her ribs. Taila barely dodges, her brows raising slightly at my sudden intensity.
Nearby, Lyra clocks the shift, but doesn’t stop moving. She smirks as she dodges Darius’s strike, landing a quick jab to his ribs.
“Don’t let a little audience distract you, boys and girls,” she calls, breathless but grinning.
A few of the other sparring warriors chuckle. I don’t laugh. Instead, I push harder—Taila notices.
Beyond her, I glimpse Lady Evelyne watching. She studies me with sharp interest. Her gaze tracks each strike, each counter.
I know what she sees; I’m not polished and I don’t fight like a noble.
But I’m effective.
She tilts her head, thoughtful. “Your warriors are well-trained, Warlord,” Evelyne says softly, her voice carrying. Her gaze flicks back to me, still locked in combat with Taila. “But that one—” she pauses, considering, “—is not just trained. She fights like someone with something to prove.”
As she speaks, she rests a hand on Thane’s bicep, fingers lingering a breath too long. She leans in, as if speaking just to him—but loud enough that everyone nearby can hear.
My grip tightens around my blade. That one.
Heat flares beneath my ribs—anger and indignation curling like a lit fuse. I press forward, forcing Taila back a step, but my focus momentarily flickers.
I glance over her shoulder, catching Thane’s eyes. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his gaze does.
“She fights to win,” he says simply.
Evelyne’s lips quirk, something glinting in her eyes. “So I see.”
I grit my teeth and shove Taila’s blade aside—harder than necessary.
I am not entertainment. Not something to be observed, analyzed, picked apart with passing comments like I’m not standing right here.
I don’t break again. I hold steady. My blade stays where it should.
They can talk all they want—I know exactly what I’m proving and I don’t need their approval to do it.
The sparring hall hums with the sharp clash of steel, the steady thud of boots against the mats, the rhythmic exhale of warriors pushing themselves to their limits. My pulse still beats fast, the weight of combat thrumming through my limbs after another hard round with Taila.
Then, a voice cuts through the room, deliberately loud enough to be heard.
“Tell me, Warlord—”
I don’t stop moving, but I hear the shift—the way the surrounding warriors hesitate, the subtle pause in the air. Lord Toren Hale’s voice carries, sharp and assessing. His gaze flicks toward me.
“—is this the Spiritborn we’ve been hearing so much about?”
Silence spreads through the hall. I feel it instantly—every gaze shifting to me, the room holding its breath.
I do not react. I do not answer.
Not because I’m caught off guard. Because I know better. Anything I say—any word, shift in tone, or flicker of emotion—will be remembered.
Instead, I lower my blade and meet Toren’s gaze, holding it without a word. And after a beat, he looks back to Thane.
Thane does not react outwardly. He stands as he always does—composed, immovable, unreadable. But there is weight behind his silence. I know him better now so I can see it, sense it.
A beat passes. Then another. Only after the silence has stretched too long does Thane speak. His voice is even but edged in steel.
“That is not a name we use lightly, Lord Hale. Her name is Amara Thalor.”
A warning. A reminder. A line drawn in the sand.
The silence lingers, thick and heavy, pressing against the walls of the training hall.
Across the mats, Lyra turns to me, eyes flaring with something between shock and satisfaction. Then, just as quickly, she snaps her attention back to Darius, resuming her fight as if nothing happened.
But I catch the small, sharp grin of approval she tries to hide. She heard that. They all did.
Toren doesn’t look away, his features carved into something hard and impassive. But there’s something beneath it—a flicker of thought, as if he’s weighing and considering.
Beside him, Lady Evelyne watches me intently. Her gaze lingers—sharp, assessing. The kind that memorizes weakness and files it for later.
After a pause, she tilts her head—an almost imperceptible shift. She leans in close to Thane, as if to whisper, as if this moment is meant only for him. Her fingers brush lightly against his arm, her lashes lowering just slightly—just enough to make the touch feel intentional.
But then—just as the moment stretches—she speaks loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Then you’ll forgive our curiosity,” she murmurs—light, pleasant, calculated. “Stories travel quickly, Warlord. But names? Even faster.”
The tension lingers—settling like dust after a storm. Warriors return to their sparring, the rhythmic clash of steel and the low grunt of exertion filling the space again.
Captain Elaris’ voice cuts through the clash of steel.
“The training program here is rigorous by design,” he says, his words measured but firm. “Every warrior is expected to maintain proficiency across multiple forms of combat. Strength alone won’t win battles—discipline and adaptability will.”
I hear him, his voice threading through the background of my sparring match with Taila. He’s speaking for the noble party, walking them through our training regimen. I don’t let it distract me.
Taila lunges, and I twist away, barely evading the strike.
“We incorporate endurance conditioning, strategy drills, and daily sparring sessions,” Elaris continues.” A warrior who cannot outlast their opponent in a fight will not survive one.”
Taila presses forward, her blade flicking toward my ribs. I counter fast, blocking, forcing her to pivot to recover. The floor groans underfoot, the mats absorbing each impact. Sweat beads along my temple, my arms, but I don’t slow.
Thane and the nobles move through the hall, their presence shifting the room’s energy.
I keep my focus on Taila—until I don’t. Because now, I can see them, just beyond her shoulder.
Lady Evelyne, standing close to Thane, her fingers resting lightly on his arm. I grit my teeth, muscles tensing. She leans in slightly, like she’s going to whisper something to him, but it’s obvious she isn’t trying to be discreet. The way she tilts her head, the way she lingers—it’s deliberate.
It’s not the fight making my chest burn.
I press forward, blade flashing in the golden light streaming through the high windows. Taila reacts instantly, her stance adjusting, eyes narrowing.
The training hall blurs—Elaris’ voice, noble murmurs, steel on steel. All I can think about is the way Evelyne is touching him . . . and the way Thane isn’t moving away.
Fine.
I tighten my grip on the blade, the hilt slick with sweat, exhaling slowly as I reset my stance. My body burns from exertion. My breath still comes fast from the last bout—but I push it aside. Across from me, Taila waits, adjusting her grip, her tunic darkened at the collar, damp from sweat.
Afternoon sun streams through the high windows, cutting through dust motes, casting long golden streaks across the mats. The room smells of leather, sweat, and metal—familiar, grounding.
I shake out my arms, ready to spar again, when I feel it.
A presence.
Taila notices first. Her stance shifts, her focus flicking past me. I follow her gaze, turning, and find Thane striding toward us. His presence is a gravity all its own, pulling the air tight, drawing focus without effort.
He doesn’t stop at the edge of the mat, but rather, keeps walking right into our space.
I go still at the sharp, undeniable awareness of him.
Taila straightens slightly, blade lowering in question. “Good afternoon, Warlord.”
Thane glances at her briefly. “Excuse me, Taila.”
She blinks but nods, stepping back without a word. Then, he turns to me and leans in.
Heat and sweat cling to my skin. Muscles still taut, adrenaline still humming—and now this. His heat brushes against my skin, his breath warm at my ear.
My pulse skips, flutters—useless. His hand lifts—light, deliberate. Fingertips graze my elbow, resting there—electric.
And then, in a voice meant only for me—low, smooth, edged with amusement—”You’ve been invited to dinner.”
I blink, head tilting slightly—caught between curiosity and the pulse stuttering in my chest.
He lingers, just enough to keep my breath shallow. Then, pulls back to meet my gaze. His expression is calm, unreadable—except for the teasing glint in his smoke-gray eyes.
I don’t answer right away and Thane notices. A smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth.