Chapter 19
Thou Shalt Not Let Desire Break Discipline
Atticus
Ileave the academy behind for the sparing grounds before the morning bell rings. Classes can wait.
The chatter, the hierarchy, the endless parade of expectations—I need silence, or at least something controlled. Remembering the way his perverted fingers brushed against the soft skin of her hand has my control on a leash of dental floss.
I cut toward the sparring fields, slipping between clusters of students still half-asleep and clutching breakfast trays.
A few heads turn as I pass, quick glances, whispered breaths, but I keep moving, shoulders tight, strides sharp.
Let them look. Let them invent whatever story their bored little brains want.
My focus is a blade, and I hold it right in front of me. No faltering. No flinching.
Somewhere out there, my father’s people are watching—his ghosts tucked into corners, behind screens, under orders. Fine. They can report that I’m walking fast with murder in my pulse and purpose in every step. Let him try to decipher that.
A trade of words with our enemy faction. I did nothing to dishonor myself.
The fencing area is empty, just as I expected it to be. The sense of familiarity comes over me just like it always does: cold steel, taut lines, smelling polished wood and sweat. It’s a sanctuary. Every thrust, parry, and riposte is exact, calculated, like a dance I’ve done a thousand times.
I strap on my gear and stalk toward an empty dummy, blades already itching in my hands. Muscle memory kicks in before my brain can catch up.
Step. Pivot. Lunge.
The thud of impact shudders up my arm, shaking something loose in my chest. I shift back, boots scuffing the mat, and swing again—cleaner, harder.
Another strike. Another breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
My thoughts claw for space, but the rhythm drowns them out. Advance. Feint. Parry. The world narrows to the hiss of air and the crack of my blade against padded armor.
For a few precious seconds, the storm inside me quiets. Here at least my hands obey. Here, the only thing I have to fight is the target in front of me, not my father’s shadow, not the faction politics closing in, not the impossible mess I’ve made of my life.
Just this. And I can win this.
And yet, even here, she intrudes.
My form is flawless; it always is. Blade, breath, balance. The predictable cadence of steel striking wood should clear the mind, sharpen focus, restore order.
But order evades me.
I lunge. The strike lands clean. Still, she lingers.
Arwen.
With a single thought, and my grip tightens. I adjust, reset my stance, and drive the blade forward again, harder than necessary. The dummy absorbs the force; my composure does not.
She is defiant in a way that should irritate me. It does. And yet… it does not stop there.
She refuses to bow—to authority, to expectation, to me. Especially to me.
I exhale through my nose, controlled, measured, as the bond surges beneath my skin. Magic hums through my veins in an undignified rush, betraying me with every pulse. If my father sensed it, if the council suspected even a fraction, the consequences would be catastrophic.
Unacceptable.
I strike again, each movement precise, practiced. But precision cannot erase memory.
Her shaking hands. Her damp skin against mine. The way she fit into my arms as though she belonged there—an absurd, impossible notion I have no right entertaining.
It was a lapse. A momentary breach. Nothing more.
And yet… my body recalls her with a loyalty it should not possess.
Steadying my posture, I square my shoulders, jaw firm. This will not rule me. Pride does not waver. House Willshire does not fracture.
But the bond—traitorous thing—does not care for lineage or legacy. It thrums with every breath, every beat of magic, whispering her name with a certainty I cannot allow:
Arwen.
And no amount of discipline seems capable of silencing it.
I drive into the next stance too sharply. The impact jars up my arm, and the blade slips, skittering across the mat as it tumbles away from me.
Careless. Disappointing.
I should be better. Picking up my blade, I inhale once, slow, disciplined.
But the damage is done.
My chest tightens, breath catching in a way I refuse to acknowledge. Her presence threads through my ribs anyway—unwelcome, persistent—pulling at every carefully arranged piece of me until the entire structure threatens to tilt.
Letting out a growl, I retreat three steps, pivot and thrust. Precision? Forget it. The movement reflects my chaos.
I have been captivated by her since I first saw her in the Councilor’s office back home, where she stood her ground against those who could have easily crushed her Pride with a word. I remember exactly how she looked that day — every hair, every move and the way she refused to bow.
I put her on a pedestal before I even knew why.
And now, this bond in my chest amplifies everything. Rage, desire, frustration—it all boils within me. I should hate it.
Strike.
I should hate her.
Strike.
She’s a sinless, she’s outside my faction, she’s the impossible.
Strike. Strike. Strike!
But I can’t.
I let the sword fall from my hand again as the bond yanks at me, twisting my gut as if my stomach itself is rebelling. Each strike I throw into the air, each parry I counter, is a scream I cannot voice.
I pace a tight arc, boots grinding into the dirt with each clipped step. A low growl escapes me. The sword glints where it fell; I stoop to retrieve it, fingers closing around the hilt with deliberate precision.
My spine straightens on instinct. Shoulders set. Jaw locks. The heir of Pride does not unravel on a training field. I am the epitome of control.
Get it together. I can do this.
I spin, feint, lunge. The blade hits the target with a sharp clack, hitting my mark, echoing in the space. My breathing is heavy, my body slick with sweat, but the real burn is inside me—hot, unrelenting, suffocating.
Everything I’ve built, everything my father expects, every step I’ve taken to cement my power in this world… all of it teeters on the edge because of her.
Throwing the blade to the side, my chest heaves as it hits the cement wall with a loud clang.
My hands tremble just slightly as I wipe the sweat from my forehead.
I should feel relief. I should feel in control.
Instead, it’s her face in my mind. Her defiance.
Her fire. The unfinished bond gnaws at me, screaming to let it out, let it take control.
I grind my teeth, close my eyes, and force the discipline back into my limbs. Every motion is a mantra. Control. Discipline. Power. But the bond? It doesn’t care. It doesn’t wait for me to be ready.
And the more I try to push it down, the more it claws its way to the surface, dragging my rationality and my rage with it.
… nothing has left me this raw, this unbalanced.
Nothing except her.