SYLRA’S POV
“You’re late,” Caelen said before I even reached the edge of the training circle.
“I’m ten minutes early.”
“You’re late to who you need to be,” he replied, tossing me a dull-edged training sword. “That’s what matters.”
The sword slapped into my palm with more weight than I expected. I tightened my grip, ignoring the urge to roll my eyes. We stood alone in the open field behind the east tower, the grass dew-wet, the morning air already warm with sun and pressure.
“You know, most people start the day with a greeting,” I said. “Maybe even a compliment.”
He smirked. “Compliments are for achievements. You haven’t earned any yet.”
“Good morning to you too.”
He stepped into the circle and rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck with a satisfying pop. “For now, I’m your trainer. Not your audience. I’ll teach you field combat, pressure control, and the kind of political maneuvering that wins wars before the first arrow flies.”
“How generous.”
“No,” he said, drawing his blade from his hip with a flourish. “Necessary. Because if you walk into the Council chambers or a battlefield like you did yesterday, someone’s going to gut you with a smile.”
I scowled. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”
“Confidence without skill is a liability,” he shot back. “Now. Defend.”
He came at me fast.
The first blow I parried out of reflex. The second jarred up my arm, and the third sent me stumbling back on my heels.
Caelen didn’t hesitate. “Again.”
I reset my stance and lunged, sloppy, desperate. He twisted, sidestepped, and used my momentum to flip me off balance. I hit the dirt with a grunt.
“Again.”
I pushed up, gritting my teeth, and came at him harder. This time I swung low, hoping to clip his legs. He jumped, turned, and slammed his blade against mine so hard it rattled my shoulders.
“Too slow,” he said. “And too obvious.”
Sweat stung my eyes. I lunged again.
I block, counter, twist, and strike again and again. My body moved, but my mind frayed.
“You’re telegraphing every move. It’s like sparring with a child.”
“Maybe because I’ve only been trained for five minutes!”
“And already whining?” he said, ducking another wild swing. “You think the battlefield listens to excuses?”
“Maybe if the battlefield didn’t talk so damn much!”
“You’ll be dead before your second sentence.”
“Shut up and fight me.”
I swung harder. He parried like it was a dance. It was effortless, controlled, and calculated, and I was gasping.
My sword lowered.
My arms shook.
I dropped the blade, panting, throat burning from frustration and exhaustion.
“I’m done,” I muttered. “This is pointless.”
Caelen’s voice dropped, ice-cold and cutting. “You’re not a princess.”
I looked up, eyes burning. “What?!”
He stepped forward. “You’re not a queen. You’re not even close.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“I’m watching your hands. They’re shaking.”
“You’ve been doing this your entire life! I’ve had weeks. What do you expect from me?”
“I expect you not to quit the moment someone pushes harder than you’re used to,” he said, not shouting—worse, calm. “I expect the heir of the Lycan throne to stand when her knees buckle. To fight when her muscles scream. You think a crown waits for someone who gets tired and throws down her blade like a sulking cub?”
“I’m not sulking!”
“You’re flailing,” he said, voice sharp now. “You’re fighting your emotions, not your opponent.”
I clenched my fists, chest heaving. “Then let’s fix that.”
He tilted his head. “Oh?”
“I challenge you.”
He blinked once. “You what?”
“You said I’m weak. So prove it. If I can get your sword to the ground—just once—you back off. Admit I can hold my own.”
He looked amused. “And if you fail?”
“I won’t.”
“That’s a bold lie,” he said, stepping closer. “Fine. You want a real match? You’ll get one. But I’m not pulling punches.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to.”
He sheathed his training blade, drew the real one. I did the same.
His stance shifted.
We circled in silence, our eyes meeting with precision.
He struck first, clean and fast. I blocked, barely. My wrist already screamed.
I countered, low and diagonal, but he deflected easily and swept my legs. I rolled, came up, swung again—closer this time.
“You hesitate,” he said mid-strike.
“I aim.”
He pushed me back with a flurry of strikes. My arms burned. My legs felt like they’d snap under me.
Still, I didn’t stop.
“Keep going,” he ordered. “Or drop it again.”
I gritted my teeth. “Not this time.”
Sweat ran into my eyes. My grip loosened. My blade dropped for just half a second.
He smirked. “Tired?”
I exhaled through clenched teeth. “Reminding me of it won’t stop me.”
He lunged.
I ducked under his swing and rolled to the side. My blade flashed up. He blocked—barely. His elbow grazed my collarbone. Pain bloomed, but I twisted, using the moment.
I dropped low and swept my sword across his hand.
A clean arc.
His blade flew from his grip and It hit the ground with a clatter.
Silence.
I stood there, chest heaving, face flushed, my sword shaking in my hand.
His expression didn’t change.
I raised my chin. “That enough proof for you?”
A beat.
Then he sighed, shaking his head.
“That was sheer luck.”
I grinned, breathless. “Still counts.”
He bent to retrieve his sword and straightened. “We begin again. Now.”
