Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mallen moves with precision, and I hit the ground again, hard.
We chose a lesser courtyard off the inner colonnade, stone underfoot, and clipped yew along the walls. He sent the other guards away. The archways stay vacant. All that remains are our footsteps, the scrape of steel, and the morning wind.
He doesn’t hold back this morning. Not after last night.
This is not the man who cradled my face like it was some fragile sunburst of dawn, trembling beneath the first light. This is the soldier who would see me strong or not see me at all.
“Focus,” he says, low and sharp, as he offers his hand.
My fingers tremble a little as they slide into his. Pride has no place between us now. Not when I know what he’s trying to teach me.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. In war, apology is useless. He’s taught me that—over and over and over—and I haven’t forgotten the lesson.
“No.” His voice cuts like steel. “You’re off balance.”
I adjust. Too late.
He surges forward, spins behind me, and raps the back of my head with the flat of his blade. Not hard—but enough to sting. He doesn’t finish the move. Doesn’t drop me again.
It’s not mercy. It’s disappointment. And it lands harder than any blow.
“What’s gotten into you?” he asks, stepping in close. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t have to. The way he looks at me—measured and cold—says everything.
I swallow the heat rising to my face and look away.
“You’re hesitating. You’re thinking like someone who wants to be liked, not someone who wants to survive.”
A pause.
“In a fight, doubt will put a blade through your throat. Or worse—someone else’s.”
I nod once, sharp. I understand. I do.
We begin again. I strike hard this time, but he turns the blade aside and catches me by the throat lightly—just enough to halt the movement. To end it.
My feet drag across the stone as I walk away. Blood taints my mouth—maybe I bit my tongue—and my pulse hammers with frustration. His fingers curl just tight enough to still me, to force the truth into my lungs.
I am not fast enough. Not sharp enough.
Yet.
“She needs more instruction.”
The voice slithers in from behind. We both jerk toward Darian, startled by his interruption.
He’s standing against a column as if he’s always been there, lazy and amused, surrounded by the other men from Larksbind who lounge behind him like bored wolves. He stares straight at me, bites into an apple, and speaks like he’s announcing the weather.
“She’ll never learn to defend herself like that. You’re training her like she’s already a fighter. She’s not.”
Mallen doesn’t move. His entire body shifts, but only inside. I feel my own spine go rigid for entirely different reasons: Larksbind’s prince thinks I’m incapable.
Mallen steps forward, frowning. “And you just happened to be strolling through the gardens?”
My fists curl. My face burns—not from shame, but fury. They’re talking over me, about me, as if I’m not standing here with a sword in my hand. As if I am nothing more than a girl who is here to smile and bow and do no more.
Darian flashes a grin. “I’ll show her.”
Mallen scoffs. “Be my guest.”
He steps behind me, close enough that his breath grazes my neck. He slides the lighter sword into my hand, turning the hilt just enough for the edge to catch the light.
“He thinks you’re weak,” Mallen murmurs. “Make him regret that.”
His hand adjusts the clasp at my shoulder. A soldier’s ritual, not a lover’s. Then he looks at me—really looks—and it’s not affection that sharpens his gaze. It’s expectation. Permission. A quiet command.
Don’t hesitate. End it clean.
The small courtyard echoes with laughter as the men from Larksbind strut closer, cocksure and clinking with weapons.
Darian selects a weapon and coughs—faintly performative, clearly impatient.
He lets the blade catch the light in a lazy flourish, tipping a smile toward his men that says watch and learn.
“Try to keep your feet this time, Princess.”
I say nothing.
He points to my back foot. “Too much weight on it.”
There isn’t.
“Maybe turn your blade. These are blunted, but you’ll still cut yourself holding one like that.”
I don’t move.
His smirk deepens. My silence must read as nerves. Let it.
He lunges.
I barely move, my blade catching his side with the lightest touch. A warning.
The laughter stops.
He spins—faster this time—but I’m already ducking, slipping beneath his reach, striking low. My sword grazes his thigh.
His blade whistles through the air as we turn to face each other. The clash of metal rings out as I parry, twist, and shove—hard enough to disarm him.
His sword hits the stone with a sharp clang. No one speaks.
The silence isn’t just surprise. It’s appraisal. Measurement. I feel it in the stares that scorch my skin as they rake over my body, and in the way Mallen hasn’t moved a muscle behind me.
He’s letting them watch. Letting them see me.
“Not a beginner,” I say, quiet and cool.
Darian retrieves his weapon. This time, he bows. He takes a stance and then it shifts—not in fear, but wariness. His weight settles differently now. He knows what I did. We both do. And so do the other men.
The part of him that wanted to impress his companions begins to vanish, replaced by something colder, more calculating.
Good. I want him angry. I want him to make that error.
“My mistake. It won’t happen again.”
We circle. This time, no mockery. No corrections. His stance changes again, his weight centered. Serious now.
I feint left. He sees it. Doesn’t fall for it. Smart.
“Not merely proficient either,” he murmurs.
I smile, just a little.
We move.
Blades flash. The sound of steel striking steel grows louder, drawing attention. Courtiers drift in, whispers rising. Nobles watch from archways, stunned.
We don’t stop.
Our swords crash together again, louder this time, the force rattling up through my wrists. He shifts his grip and counters—slick, practiced, fast. A downward arc that slices toward my ribs. I twist, barely dodging it.
Pain flares in my side where his dulled blade bruises skin through my tunic. I don’t flinch.
He wants me to hurt. Fine. So long as he hurts more.
Darian presses forward, and I start to notice it—the fatigue, the slowness in my limbs. For a moment, I can’t tell if I’m driving this or just surviving it.
Am I keeping up? Or is he holding back?
He’s good—agile, ruthless—but I’m faster.
Smaller. Sharper. He tries to use his size, and I use the terrain.
Let him chase me up the steps, into narrow spaces where his strength means less.
He follows and then he drives me back, out of the small courtyard and into the bigger, more imposing main square outside the palace.
I don’t care if the whole court watches.
I step back, defending every move I make.
My muscles burn.
Pain is a language I’ve learned well and speak fluently.
Darian’s good, and that isn’t a surprise. I won with cheap strikes earlier, and now I have to work. He drives me further back, and I let him. Then I pivot, land a glancing blow on his shoulder, and retreat again before he can trap me.
Our swords lock mid-swing. He bears down, sweat shining on his brow. I hold fast, knees braced, arms screaming. For a second, we’re eye to eye.
“Not bad,” he mutters.
“Not finished,” I growl.
I shove him off, pivot, and drive him back three paces before he recovers.
This is not a game anymore. I aim to hurt, and he feels it, the court mask slipping as the killer steps forward. The crowd’s growing. Voices are rising. Somewhere, a man shouts. Guards are coming.
I don’t stop.
The guards shout again. A voice calls my name—someone from the nobility, shocked.
Let them yell. Let them panic.
I’m not doing this for their approval; I’m doing it because I can.
This is my moment.
Steel bites air as we break apart, only to clash again with sharper purpose. My blade sings. Darian’s grits like teeth.
The main square is roaring now, but it feels distant—like surf against a cliff. My pulse is the only rhythm I hear.
Darian lunges. I slip beneath his arm, twist, and land a shallow strike along his ribs.
He hisses and drives me back with a hard downward blow.
He presses harder, and I’m forced to yield ground.
I rebound and meet him. Sun flashes in his eyes, and I catch it there—real frustration.
He is a prince, trained to win, and the set of his jaw says he does not plan to lose. Not to me. Not to anyone.
Mallen’s moved to the edge of the square, and his gaze hooks mine, discipline clamped over something louder. Steady. Contained. The look that gives me permission.
End him. Now.
I pivot. Strike. Darian blocks. Hard. The impact rattles down my bones.
He twists his blade, and I try to counter, but he’s too fast. My sword jerks and then wrenches from my grip.
Steel clatters across the stone. My breath catches in my throat.
The crowd vanishes. Time lurches. And I dive—low, fast, reckless—but my fingers grasp only dust. My sword’s spun further than I thought.
Darian laughs, and his boot catches my ankle, yanking my balance out from under me.
I hit the ground hard. Wind knocked from my lungs. Dirt in my mouth, the taste of failure thick on my tongue.
He stands above me, triumphant, his blade poised at my throat.
“Yield,” he says. Too sure.
My fingers dig into the earth. I drive my boot into his groin—hard.
He chokes and stumbles.
I roll, leap, and recover the blade I lost earlier. My hands close around its hilt like a prayer answered—and then I move.
One heartbeat. Two. A blur of limbs and silver.
I spin, duck, and drive forward. My foot finds the back of his knee. He drops. I lunge. My sword is at his chest, and I’m on top of him, straddling him like a conquering storm.
His arms fly wide in a show of peace, but I don’t lower my blade.
The court is silent. The ladies are breathless. Even the banners hanging above seem to have gone still.
I wait. Without lowering my blade.
“You shouldn’t drop your guard,” I murmur, voice soft as silk and as sharp as a general’s sword. “Unless you want the Reaping to end before it’s even begun.”
His smirk flickers. Then fades. His chest heaves.
“I yield,” he says at last, and this time it lands like defeat.
I rise without help. Take two steps back and breathe him out of my lungs.
Darian lingers a beat longer, face flushed, eyes bright. He bows low, the angle just enough to acknowledge me—but not so much that it stings his pride.
“I’ll have to be more careful,” he mutters, his smile stretched thin. “Next time.”
But the crowd’s eyes aren’t on him.
They’re on me.
Nobles line the courtyard like statues come to life. Ladies glance at Darian with both worry and awe, as if mourning a fallen hero. Finery gleams under the sun, mouths parted in silent disbelief. No one speaks.
The lords stare at me as if seeing me for the first time.
My father doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.
His posture shifts—just slightly. His long face tightens, and the muscle in his jaw ticks once.
A breath leaves him, sharp and measured, like he’s just decided exactly how much I’ve embarrassed him.
I don’t look away.
His gaze stays fixed on mine—a weapon honed on silence, folding layers of calculation and venom beneath it. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t scowl. He simply stares, as if learning the shape of my defiance so he’ll know precisely where to strike when the time comes.
I let my smirk rise anyway.
He’s losing a pawn that’s easy to control, and he knows it.
Perhaps this is the start of the turn. The Reaping has always kept to its steps, but now it’s almost like the rules are changing. Or trying to. This year, the rites don’t seem to fit their grooves, and the ceremonies seem off beat. By a breath, no more. Enough.
I walk past Darian without another word.
When I reach Mallen, he doesn’t speak. Instead, he simply holds out a cloth, eyes locked on mine with a weight that presses beneath the surface.
There’s no warmth, no consolation—only the quiet command of a man who trusts actions more than words.
I take the cloth and clean the blade with measured, deliberate strokes, each movement steadying the storm inside me.
Then he shifts beside me. Barely a breath.
“A skilled display,” he says aloud, voice pitched to carry. “Next time, don’t waste time toying with your opponent.”
The crowd stirs.
Mallen’s words do everything he wanted them to. Praise. Unnerve. He’s informed the court that I was holding back—and I could have ended it sooner, if I’d wanted to.
I shift my gaze sideways, catching him in the corner of my vision. His arms remain folded, but his eyes flicker—dark, steady. And there it is: a slow, nearly imperceptible tightening at the edge of his mouth. Not quite a smile, and much more dangerous—like pride tempered by quiet satisfaction.
He’s claiming this moment, for me, quietly acknowledging what I’ve done.
He sees me.
Not as a child. Not as a pawn.
As a weapon.
And he likes what he sees.
We turn and ascend the steps together. Behind us, whispers break like waves across the stone. I don’t look back. I’m not interested in what they have to say.
“Would you rather I kill him next time?” I murmur, low enough for only Mallen to hear.
His snigger is quiet and rich. “I’d rather you didn’t ask permission.”