Chapter 86 Dancing in His Mind
Claus walked fast. His boots clicked against the marble, too loud, too sharp. The palace air was wrong. Too clean. It felt like an insult after the carriage ride. He raked a hand through his hair, tugging hard, trying to claw the memory of Ilse de Varannes out of his head. It wasn't working.
He stopped, shoulders locked, and leaned against the cold wall.
He lifted his collar, nose brushing the fabric.
There. Faint, but it was there. The scent of her, soap, paper, and something sharper, like stubbornness.
Damn it. It was driving him insane. He didn't want to smell her.
He wanted to forget the way she looked at him, the way her voice filled that cramped carriage.
He pushed off the wall. Started walking again. Jaw grinding. Teeth aching. His head? A war zone. Too many questions. Not a single answer.
Then, the training ground. Sawdust. Sweat. Usually, this place was his escape. Usually, he could breathe here. Swing. Block. Win. Lose. Black and white. Simple.
But not today. Today? The wooden swords were just cheap sticks. Toys. He didn't want to spar. He didn't want to train. He just wanted to break something.
Didier was already there, pacing the center of the ring, swinging his blade through the air in bored, arrogant arcs. When he saw Claus, he stopped, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Brother," Didier called out, his voice smooth and irritatingly calm. "You're late. And look at you, you're a disaster. You look like you just crawled out of a gutter."
Claus didn't bother replying. He stripped off his cloak and threw it onto the bench. Hard. He tore off his general's gear—the stiff collar, the heavy shoulder plates. He needed something real in his hands. Something he could actually control.
"Patrol."
The word tasted like poison on his tongue. A lie. A damn lie. His tongue felt wooden. Not a patrol. It was the most humiliating interrogation of his life. And the interrogator? Some girl who thought she could lecture him on time management.
He stepped into the ring. They locked eyes, wooden blades raised.
"Patrol, huh?" Didier laughed, shifting into a stance. "You've lost your touch, Claus. You can't even lie to my face anymore."
They clashed.
Usually? Claus was a machine. Sharp. Precise. Every move is calculated. But today? His limbs were lead. Dragging. Like moving through sludge. He was a second too slow. He saw Didier's opening, hesitated—just a split second—and left his guard wide open.
Clang!
Didier's blade grazed his shoulder. Not enough to bruise, but the shock? It was humiliating. Claus stumbled. Jerked back. Breath hitching in his throat.
Didier lowered his blade, eyebrows arching high. "Focus, Brother. You're drifting. Are you daydreaming about the war? Or something else?"
Claus didn't answer. He couldn't. He stared at the tip of his wooden sword, breath ragged. Uneven.
Behind his eyelids, the training hall vanished. He was back in the carriage. Her face. The way her brows knit when she was annoyed. The flush on her neck when she tried to sound professional and failed miserably. It was infuriating. It was... soft.
No. He grit his teeth, shoving the image away.
"Just sleep-deprived," Claus muttered. Cold. Clipped. A shield. He reset his stance, knuckles turning white against the wood.
Didier chuckled. That skeptical, patronizing sound that always set Claus off. "Sleep-deprived? You? You're the guy who fought for three days straight without closing your eyes. That's not sleep, Claus. Something's eating you alive. So, give. Who is she?"
Claus didn't bother. No more games.
He lunged. This wasn't a spar anymore; it was an attack. He swung with every ounce of frustration clawing at his chest. Brutal. Ugly. Every strike was a lie added to the pile. And god, it tasted bitter.
He hated this. Hated that he was standing here, hitting wood, just because some girl with a sharp mouth had cracked his composure. His life was supposed to be straight lines. Order. But Ilse de Varannes? She was a wrecking ball. Tearing him apart from the inside.
Everything was falling to pieces. And for the first time in his life, Claus had no idea how to fix it.