Chapter 3 Blood and Bloom
Chapter three
Blood and Bloom
-Maris-
Maris did not sleep, not really. When the pale dawn light crept through the tall, barred windows, she felt like she’d been chased all night.
Maris couldn’t decide what was more absurd, the cold stone palace she now called home, the cursed king who watched her like she was a riddle he needed to unravel, or the fact that she was expected to learn their ways.
Her? A seamstress? A human?
He hadn’t explained much, not really. No long-winded speeches or heartfelt warnings. Just: You are chosen. You must learn to our customs. You belong to the prince now.
It was laughable, if it weren’t so terrifying.
She’d spent most of her life mending sleeves and taking measurements, not swinging weapons or dodging enchanted creatures in onyx halls.
And yet, here she was tucked in a cold bed in a room that wasn't truly hers, her body still sore from that wretched dream in the night. She curled tighter beneath the sheets, trying to block out the echo of her own thoughts, but sleep never came. Only restless drifting, haunted by flickers of Kael’s silver eyes, by shadows that twisted like they knew her name, and by a looming sense that she was being watched. Measured. Prepared.
So when the knock at her door came, loud and final, she already knew the day would bring no comfort.
Valea stepped in without waiting for permission, her usual dresses replaced with a black leather uniform raised swirled patterns covered the expanse of the material, a silver handled dagger strapped to her hip.
“Wake, mortal,” she commanded, tone sharp as a blade. “Your lessons begin today, the king requested you learn our ways, combat training is a requirement for all of noble blood.”
Maris blinked at her, still half in the haze of nightmares.
Valea crossed the floor with a predator’s ease, holding out a folded bundle of black leathers and dropped a pair of black leather boots at the foot of Maris's bed.
“You will wear these.”
Maris took them gingerly, unfolding a fitted set of training clothes: high-necked tunic cut to hug her form, stitched in pale gray thread with strange protective patterns, paired with slim-fitted leather trousers that hugged her legs like a second skin.
They looked impossibly elegant and terribly intimidating, made of supple leather that smelled faintly of smoke and oils.
The boots were soft-soled and perfectly molded, their design clearly built for both speed and balance. She’d never worn anything so perfectly measured for her body, the unsettling knowledge that someone had taken her measurements while she slept made her stomach twist.
The thought of her in combat was almost a laughable offense in her mind. How was she expected to go toe to toe with trained killers. Monsters.
Maris dressed, trying not to tremble, and followed Valea through the long halls. They stepped into the training courtyard, and Maris’s breath caught.
The yard was huge, a quadrangle surrounded by high walls wrapped in climbing thorn-roses, their blooms a sickly pale from the curse. Overhead, twisted iron lanterns burned with cold witchlight, casting eerie green glows across the ground.
Several sections were marked off with chalk, like a chessboard, each a different practice ring.
Some circles were ringed with sharpened stakes where more advanced warriors trained in dangerous duels.
Rows of weapon racks stood along the sides, gleaming with knives, swords, and polearms that looked more art than war.
The training area was packed with black gravel, carefully raked smooth, and from one end to the other Maris could see the soldiers of the court, nightbound, dangerous, graceful, moving in synchronized drills.
At the far end, stood a raised platform crowned with banners bearing the silver rose and moon sigil of Nythra. Kael waited there, arms folded, his unbound tunic fluttering in the cold breeze. His silver eyes fixed on her the moment she crossed the threshold, and stayed there, heavy and consuming.
Maris felt raw under that stare, but forced herself to keep moving.
Two towering figures approached from Valea's left.
One was a mountain, built like a warhammer in flesh, with hair darker than coal tied back in a thick braid. Cold, intelligent eyes, so dark they seemed endless, watched her. The tattoos snaking down his neck marked him as a general, and the ring on his left hand declared him loyal to Kael alone.
The other was shorter but no less intimidating, with lean whipcord muscle and a calm, cruel smile. Short black hair displayed his angular face that would have been handsome if not for the faint scar that crossed his right eye.
Valea inclined her head. “General Riven,” she introduced, gesturing to the massive nightbound, “and General Corin,” nodding to the scarred one. “They will oversee your instruction.”
Riven only grunted, eyes raking over Maris as though measuring her worth.
Corin offered the barest hint of a smile, but no warmth. “The King’s ward, then? We will see what survives.”
Maris swallowed hard, feeling dwarfed by them. But that was not the end of the watchers.
Near Kael, leaning against a column with practiced arrogance, stood a female with hair like flame, coiled in elaborate braids that hinted at rank. Her eyes were a molten red, and the tilt of her mouth carried dangerous confidence.
Her armor was as red as the blood, she undoubtedly could spill yet elegant, gilded with roses etched in silver, and the twin knives at her belt showed she was no mere ornament.
She watched Kael with a possessive intensity that made Maris’s skin crawl and when those eyes flicked to Maris, they blazed with open hostility.
Is she a lover? Maris wondered, dread twisting inside her. Or does she only wish to be?
Valea murmured near Maris’s ear, “That is Lady Astrielle, one of our finest warriors. She… admires the King greatly.”
Maris flinched, the message clear: Watch your back.
Once training began the two warriors gave her no chance to breathe. Valea barked orders and Riven shoved a wooden practice dagger into Maris’s hand, its grip rough against her skin.
“Show me,” Riven growled, gesturing to one of the sparring circles.
Maris stepped forward, the black leather sticking to her damp skin. She felt clumsy, too aware of every slip of her boots on the gravel, every awkward shuffle of her feet.
Corin watched her like a hawk. “You stand like your asking to be knocked down,” he snapped, moving behind her to shove her shoulders into position. “Balance or you’ll be dead.”
Her face burned with humiliation, but she forced herself to try.
The first pass was a disaster. She tripped over her own feet, the dagger nearly flying out of her hands. Laughter sparked from the line of watching soldiers, and even Lady Astrielle smirked behind one red-painted nail.
Maris bit her lip, tasting blood, and tried again.
Between drills she often glanced to Kael but he had not moved.
He stood on the platform, eyes following her every move with that same frigid focus. But Maris saw something else there too, a faint, simmering worry, quickly masked.
Corin corrected her again, this time less gently, pressing the edge of the dagger against her arm until she flinched back in instinct.
“Better,” Corin said, merciless.
Maris’s knuckles burned, her boots scuffed with gravel dust, but she refused to fall.
I will not break, she thought savagely, lifting the dagger again.
She lunged. Clumsy, yes, but stronger than before.
Corin’s scarred mouth curved, almost impressed.
Kael’s gaze lingered, heavy as a winter night.
And somewhere beyond the cold walls, the storm that had haunted Achyron for centuries rumbled, as if the gods themselves watched and wondered.
-Kael-
Kael stood on the platform above the practice yard, arms folded, his cloak now hanging still despite the thin morning wind. The court might have thought him made of ice, unmoved by the girl below, but every cell of his being was caught in a taut, impossible snare. Maris.
He tried the name on his tongue in silence, tasting it the way a wolf might taste fresh blood.
She moved clumsily in the ring Valea had marked for her, raw and untested, the leathers clinging to her too-slight frame with every awkward shift.
Those pale green eyes, haloed with silver starbursts, glimmered every time she risked a look toward him.
And every time, Kael felt something unwelcome, stirring inside the place where his heart should have been.
She was small, breakable, his mind mocked him, remembering the half-sob she’d uttered the night he brought her from Eryndor. Yet now somehow flames ignited beneath her glaze, refusing to break no matter how Valea, Corin, or Riven snapped at her.
He should have been pleased to see his most loyal warriors grind her down, to break her and rebuild her into something worthy of surviving his kingdom.
That was why he had ordered it. That was what any King should do.
But when Riven shoved her, when Corin let the practice blade bite too close to her skin, rage burned under his ribs.
His nightbound instincts coiled in the dark of his bones, fangs itched in his gums, the monster in him screaming that no one should touch her like that.
Mine.
He chose the word originally to make a point to the court, that she was untouchable. But now he felt the word gaining new meaning — it was primal. Terrifying. And all too easy.
He could see Astrielle, her copper hair catching the sickly torchlight, watching Maris with a predatory glint.
Astrielle wanted him, he knew it. Hell everyone knew it.
She had been raised to be the pretty consort for a king, a picture of courtly grace and predatory power.
He was well aware that Astrielle would gut Maris given half a chance.
That possessive twist in his gut surged again, hot and lethal.
He had claimed Maris in front of the court. That meant no one, not even Astrielle with all her knives and poisons, had the right to destroy her. No one but me, he thought grimly.
He watched as Maris stumbled through another drill, teeth gritted, hands scraped bloody, but refusing to collapse. The stubborn spark in her made him want to laugh, to snarl, to bend at her whim.
He had known humans to break within hours in his court but she had survived a night in the King’s hall, faced nightmare courtiers, and now fought on bleeding feet without crying for mercy.
You will be magnificent, he thought, a savage thrill twisting through him. If you survive.
Kael’s gaze flicked to Corin, whose scarred mouth had curved in a hint of grudging approval. Valea, for her part, watched Maris like a cat toying with a mouse. He knew their game, push her to the edge, see if she’d fly or fall.
That is the only way we survive the terrors of the continent, Kael reminded himself.
There is no place for softness in the nightbound lands of Achyron. But the monster in him still howled every time her knees buckled.
When she lunged at Riven, clumsy but determined, a ragged pride filled Kael’s chest.
Maris might be breakable, but she has a sparkle within her.
Kael watched until the ache of it was nearly too much to bear.
Maris stumbled again, nearly tripping over the circle’s edge as Corin pivoted to strike her practice blade away.
Her breathing came ragged and sharp, cheeks streaked with sweat and a bright smear of blood at her lip where she’d bitten herself.
Enough.
Kael moved down the steps of the dais with slow, measured grace. The hush that fell across the courtyard was immediate: the soldiers, even Astrielle, lowered their gazes as he passed.
He stepped into the circle, cutting through Corin’s crisp command before she could continue.
“That is sufficient.”
His voice echoed through the practice yard like a bell tolling death.
Riven turned, mouth opening in protest, but he caught the silver light in his eyes and closed it again.
Maris stood there, dagger still raised, trembling. Her pale green eyes widened as he approached, those strange starbursts around her pupils catching what little sunlight bled through the castle’s dark towers.
Kael stopped a hair’s breadth from her, so close he could scent her: sweat, leather, the faintest trace of fear. And beneath it, something sweet that no perfume could mimic.
Mine, his mind snarled again, low and possessive.
He lifted a hand and, with deliberate care, brushed a strand of black hair from her damp cheek.
Her porcelain skin was marked with bruises already blooming like violets, raw and vulnerable.
He felt every eye on them, Corin’s amused glimmer, Riven’s stoic indifference, Astrielle’s poisonous rage but he did not care.
“Enough for today,” he said, voice low, meant only for her. “You will not be trained into dust on the first morning.”
Maris swallowed, throat working, but did not drop her blade.
“I… I can keep going,” she stammered, defiance trembling like a flame.
Kael’s mouth almost curved. Foolish. Brave.
“No,” he said, softer this time, quietly only for her. “Rest. Or you will break.”
His eyes lingered on the bruises at her wrists where the dagger’s handle had dug too deep, and that strange twist of worry gripped him again.
Why does she matter so much?
But he had no answer. Only the sense that if she shattered in this yard before the court, a piece of him would shatter with her.
He turned to Valea, voice snapping like a whip:
“See she is fed. And no one touches her.”
Valea bowed low. “Yes, my King.”
He did not miss Astrielle’s clenched fists at the edge of the ring, or the way her vengeful eyes burned with a hate that might one day boil over. He would love nothing more than to have a reason to put the brat in her place.
He stepped back, gaze locked on Maris one last time as she lowered her blade, breathing hard but refusing to look away from him.
A knot formed in his chest, cold and unfamiliar.
You will survive, he thought, silently. Because I will not let you die.
As Kael strode from the practice yard, cloak trailing behind him, the whispers of the soldiers rose about their King, about the strange human, about how everything was shifting.
He ignored them.
For the first time in too many years, something inside him felt dangerously alive. And it terrified him more than the gods themselves.