Chapter 36 - Steel, Dust, and Stubbornness
The training yard is the loudest place in the palace.
It sits along the inner wall of the fortress, where the stone rises high enough to block out the outside world and trap the sounds of steel inside, like thunder rolling back and forth between cliffs.
The ground is packed dirt, darkened by years of sweat and blood, and even standing still, you can smell the place: iron, leather, dust, and the faint, bitter tang of oil used to keep weapons from rusting.
It is a place built for soldiers.
Which means it is absolutely the last place I should be.
Yet here I am.
Again.
A blade whistles toward my shoulder.
I yelp and stumble backward, barely raising my training sword in time to intercept Elias's strike before it connects with my arm. The wooden practice blade cracks against mine hard enough to rattle my teeth and send a jolt of pain all the way up to my shoulder.
My grip falters.
The sword nearly slips from my fingers.
Elias groans.
Not the polite groan of someone mildly inconvenienced.
The long, suffering groan of a man who has accepted that his fate in life is to endure the stubbornness of other people until the end of time.
"After this many months," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face, "you would think you would have learned something."
I glare at him, clutching the training sword like it personally offended me.
"You expect me to get used to being tortured?"
His eyebrows rise slowly.
"Tortured."
"Yes."
"I am teaching you how to defend yourself."
"You are hitting me with a sword."
"I am correcting your form."
"You are attacking the queen."
"I am correcting your form," he repeats patiently.
"You are attacking the queen."
Elias closes his eyes.
Just briefly.
Then opens them again and points the tip of his wooden sword at my feet.
"Your stance is wrong."
"My stance is excellent."
"You look like you are trying to balance on two slippery stones."
"That is a very stable position."
"It is not."
"I saw a duck standing like this once."
"You are not a duck."
"I think the duck would disagree."
He exhales slowly through his nose.
"Again."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
We stare at each other.
Then, with all the grace of someone who has decided life is simply too short for unnecessary suffering, I drop the sword.
It lands in the dirt with a dull thud.
Then I flop backward onto the ground.
"I demand a break."
Elias stares at me.
"You just started."
"I demand a break."
"You cannot demand—"
"I demand a break."
"You are a queen."
"Yes, And?"
"And queens do not collapse in the dirt during sword lessons."
"Watch me."
He rubs his face again.
"You have been saying this exact sentence for six months."
"And every time I mean it more."
"You are exhausting."
"I am injured."
"You are not injured."
"My dignity is injured."
"That does not count."
I place my arm dramatically over my eyes.
"I demand a break."
Elias sighs.
The sound carries years of disappointment with it.
Then he finally lowers his sword.
"Fine."
The moment the word leaves his mouth I roll onto my feet like someone who absolutely was not exhausted a second ago.
"I knew you cared about my well-being."
"You are unbelievable."
"Thank you."
I happily skip across the yard before he can change his mind.
Behind me, I hear him mutter something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience.
The training yard stretches wide beneath the afternoon sun.
Soldiers fill nearly every corner of the space, some practicing drills in precise lines while others spar in pairs beneath the watchful eyes of instructors.
Steel rings constantly through the air sharp, metallic notes clashing together with the rhythm of combat practice.
Dust rises from the ground with every movement.
The air is warm and heavy, filled with motion and noise and the smell of sweat.
I make my way to the edge of the yard where the tall stone wall casts a strip of shade across the ground. The coolness there feels like a blessing after the relentless sunlight in the center of the yard.
I sit cross-legged in the dirt and brush dust from my clothes.
Then I look toward the middle of the yard.
Toward him.
Achilles stands surrounded by three soldiers.
They are about to regret volunteering for this.
He has removed the heavy coat he wore in court earlier.
His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms lined with old scars that speak of years spent learning exactly how men die.
Sweat darkens the fabric of his shirt where the heat and exertion have begun to take their toll, and the sunlight catches faintly along the edges of his shoulders and chest.
Even standing still
He looks dangerous.
Not in the loud way some men try to appear intimidating.
But in a quiet way, a blade looks dangerous when resting on a table.
Three soldiers circle him carefully.
All of them are good fighters.
None of them is foolish enough to believe that will save them.
The first one lunges.
Achilles moves before the attack is fully formed.
His sword rises smoothly, turning the strike aside with effortless precision before he pivots and drives the hilt of his blade into the man's ribs hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
The soldier stumbles backward, gasping.
The second man rushes forward immediately, hoping to take advantage of the opening.
Achilles pivots.
Steel clashes.
The soldier's weapon flies from his hands and lands somewhere in the dust.
The third soldier hesitates.
Achilles does not.
He closes the distance between them in two quick steps and presses the flat of his blade against the man's throat.
The message is clear.
Dead.
The sparring match ends almost as quickly as it began.
I swallow slowly.
Watching him fight does something strange to my thoughts.
He moves like violence belongs to him.
Not clumsy.
Not brutal.
Precise.
Graceful.
Every movement is measured and deliberate, like a storm that knows exactly where it intends to strike.
And his body
Gods.
I shift slightly where I sit.
The sunlight catches across the lines of his shoulders and the muscles of his back as he turns. Sweat glints faintly along the edges of his arms. The scar across his face looks sharper in this light, the pale line cutting across darker skin like a mark carved by lightning.
Elias was right.
The scar makes him look more dangerous.
Which somehow makes him more attractive.
That feels like a deeply irresponsible thought.
I bite my lip.
"Are you staring again?"
Elias's voice appears beside me like an accusation.
I don't turn my head.
"No."
"You are."
"I am observing."
"You are staring."
"I am studying my husband's technique."
"You are staring at his shoulders."
I glance sideways at him.
"I think that counts as technique."
He groans.
"I am training the queen of this kingdom."
"Yes."
"And she abandoned her lesson to sit in the dirt and watch her husband."
"Yes."
"You are unbelievable."
"Thank you."
Before Elias can say anything else, someone sits beside me.
The sudden movement pulls my attention sideways.
Isaac.
My stomach tightens immediately.
He sits too close.
Close enough that his shoulder nearly touches mine.
I shift away.
"You're too close."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Since when does that bother you?"
My eyes return quickly to the training yard.
"You're too close."
He leans slightly closer.
"That's new."
"You're too close."
"You never used to mind."
Before I can respond
Something whistles through the air.
A sharp slicing sound.
Isaac screams.
The sword that appears between us is buried straight through his hand.
Blood spills instantly across the dirt.
The blade vibrates slightly where it has pinned his palm to the ground.
I sigh.
"Since that."
Across the yard—
Achilles is already walking toward us.
Calm.
Unhurried.
Like a man retrieving something he misplaced.
Not the man who just threw a sword across half the yard with enough force to pin another man to the ground.
The soldiers nearby move out of his way instinctively.
Achilles stops beside us and glances down at Isaac.
Then at the sword.
Then back at Isaac.
"You're too close."
His voice is calm.
Cold.
He grips the hilt and pulls the blade free.
Isaac cries out as blood spills down his wrist.
Achilles wipes the blade clean against his sleeve before turning away.
"Move."
Isaac scrambles backward immediately as the physician hurries toward him.
Beside me, Elias mutters under his breath.
"Your husband is insane."
I watch Achilles walk back toward the center of the yard.
"He's efficient."
"That is not efficiency."
"That is efficiency with flair."
Elias stares at me.
"You stopped training to watch him fight."
"Yes."
"You abandoned your sword lesson."
"Yes."
"You did it because he took off his shirt."
I consider this.
"...maybe."
He groans loudly.
"I am trying to teach you to defend yourself."
"I appreciate that."
"You are not taking this seriously."
"I am."
"You are watching your husband's body."
"A are very impressive Body."
"Gods help me."
I lift my hand and give him the middle finger.
My eyes never leave Achilles.
He moves again across the yard, blade flashing through the sunlight as another soldier charges him.
Elias sighs.
"You are hopeless."
"Probably."
Elias says the words with the calm certainty of a man stating a natural law, like gravity or the fact that winter always follows autumn.
He folds his arms across his chest as he looks down at me, his expression somewhere between exasperation and reluctant fondness.
Every few seconds the sharp ring of blades striking one another echoes through the open space as soldiers train in groups around the perimeter.
Elias closes his eyes for a moment like a man silently begging the gods for patience. When he opens them again, he looks even more tired than before. Elias studies me for another long moment, his expression unreadable. Then something shifts behind his eyes.
A slow, creeping smile begins to spread across his face.
I immediately narrow my eyes.
That smile never means anything good.
"What?" I ask cautiously.
"Nothing."
"You're smiling."
"I do that sometimes."
"You look like a man about to ruin my life."
He chuckles softly under his breath.
"You're very dramatic."
"And you're plotting."
"I would never."
"You absolutely would."
Elias does not answer.
Instead, he rises slowly to his feet and dusts the dirt from his trousers. That alone makes my stomach tighten. He begins walking toward the center of the yard.
Toward Achilles.
I watch him go with growing suspicion.
"Elias," I call.
He doesn't turn around.
"ELIAS."
Still nothing.
Across the yard, Achilles has just disarmed another unfortunate soldier, sending the man stumbling backward with a startled curse as his weapon lands somewhere in the dust. The king stands calmly where he is, sword resting loosely in one hand while he watches the next challenger approach.
Elias walks directly to him.
Then leans close and whispers something in his ear.
I cannot hear the words.
But I can see Achilles's reaction.
First he pauses.
Then he turns his head slowly.
His gaze sweeps across the yard.
Until it lands directly on me.
And then
He smiles.
Not a warm smile.
Not a kind one.
The slow, dangerous smile of a man who has just discovered a new form of entertainment.
My blood runs cold.
"Oh no," I whisper.
Achilles says something to Elias.
Elias laughs.
They both look at me again.
This is bad.
This is very bad.
I stand slowly.
Very slowly.
The kind of movement someone makes when trying not to attract a predator's attention.
Perhaps if I leave quietly
Achilles raises an eyebrow.
He noticed.
Of course, he noticed.
He notices everything.
Elias turns around.
And points directly at me.
Absolutely not.
I pivot instantly on my heel.
And run.
"OPHELIA!"
Elias's voice booms across the training yard.
"I AM BUSY!" I shout over my shoulder as I sprint toward the exit.
Several soldiers glance up in confusion as their queen bolts across the yard like a terrified deer.
"COME BACK HERE!"
"NO!"
The exit archway leading back toward the palace corridors grows closer with every step.
Freedom is right there.
A hand grabs the back of my collar.
The ground vanishes beneath my feet.
I scream.
Elias lifts me effortlessly off the ground like I weigh nothing.
"LET ME GO!"
"No."
"THIS IS KIDNAPPING!"
"This is discipline."
"I AM THE QUEEN!"
"You are a nuisance."
"I WILL HAVE YOU EXECUTED!"
"Unlikely."
I kick my legs wildly in protest while he carries me back across the yard like an overgrown sack of grain.
"SOMEONE ANYONE!" I shout desperately. "HELP ME!"
"I AM BEING ABDUCTED!"
"You ran."
"I WAS EXERCISING!"
"You were fleeing."
"I WAS STRATEGICALLY RETREATING!"
Elias drops me unceremoniously onto my feet in front of Achilles. Dust swirls around my shoes as I regain my balance and glare furiously at both of them.
"You are both terrible people."
Elias grins.
"Since you seem so eager to spend your time watching your husband fight," he says cheerfully, "we thought you might enjoy participating."
I stare at him.
"No."
Achilles lifts one eyebrow.
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"Absolutely not."
"Why?"
"Because I enjoy living."
Achilles bends down and picks up a wooden practice sword from the rack beside him. Without warning, he tosses it toward me. I catch it automatically. The moment the weight settles into my hand my stomach drops.
I look down at the weapon.
Then back up at him.
"Oh no."
Achilles's smile deepens slightly.
"Oh yes."
"My wrist," I say quickly, lifting my arm dramatically. "It's acting up again."
Elias snorts.
"Good thing you're not left-handed."
I turn slowly toward him in complete betrayal.
"You're supposed to protect me."
"I am protecting you."
"From what?"
"From being killed."
I turn back toward Achilles. He is watching me with that same calm, terrifying amusement.
"You're not actually going to fight me," I say sweetly.
"You have to learn."
"By dying ."
"I'll go easy."
Those three words are somehow the least comforting thing he could have said. I raise the practice sword slowly. It feels twice as heavy as it did earlier. Around us several soldiers have stopped training entirely. They now stand along the edges of the yard watching with interest.
Wonderful.
An audience.
Exactly what I needed while sparring with the most dangerous man in the kingdom.
"Ready?" Achilles asks.
"No."
He moves anyway.
The moment his sword swings toward me I shriek and swing wildly in response. Our wooden blades crack together with a sharp sound that vibrates through my arms.
Achilles barely moved.
He deflects my next strike with insulting ease.
"You're holding the sword too tight," he observes calmly.
"I'm terrified."
"That explains it."
From the sidelines, Elias cups his hands around his mouth.
"Use your shoulders!"
"I AM USING EVERYTHING!" I shout back.
Achilles circles me slowly.
There is nothing rushed about the way he moves. Every step is deliberate, measured, like a wolf pacing around something small and nervous.
I swing again.
He sidesteps effortlessly.
My momentum carries me forward, and I nearly fall face-first into the dirt.
A hand catches my arm before I can collapse.
Achilles steadies me easily.
For a moment
We are very close.
Then he releases me and steps back.
"Again," he says.
I glare at him.
"You're enjoying this."
"A little."