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The training yard was quieter than usual, the morning light barely clearing the top of the stone walls. A few weapons laid scattered across the tables where the guards had left them the night before, the targets at the far end still carried the marks from yesterday’s training.
I looked at the table, all the weapons looked too long with too large of hilts. I figured today would be a good idea to train with my new sword—I had been too dependent on my shadows. Ziselaer was still pissed with me burning out during the attack on the throne room, demanding I work on my weaponry combat.
I took my place in one of the larger training circles, the wind thin but strong enough to force my hair into my face. I grumbled and turned directly into the wind, tying my hair up. With my sight returned, I saw him. Kieran walked down the stairs into the yard, I turned around almost immediately.
My grip tightened around the hilt of the sword, Kieran always knew where I was, he could go anywhere and still find me.
If you do not calm down you will drop your blade onto your foot. Ziselaer’s voice rolled through my mind, she was far—I could feel it in the bond. She was right though, I needed to calm down so I could properly train.
Focus. I felt the weight of the sword, flipping it around and spinning the blade in my hand. I stabbed it through the air, I spun—launching the blade into the air behind me. It spun and cracked into the wood target. Chips of wood splintered at the ground, I was pleased.
Behind me, I could feel his gaze on my back—he was quiet.
“...Silent treatment?” Kieran asked, I refused to look at him, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Yes.”
“Well that's boring, I thought you would’ve missed me.” I could hear the pouting, I nearly cracked a smile.
“Go to hell.” I snapped, throwing another blade at the target, hearing the satisfying crack of the wood.
“Only if you come with me.” Kieran whispered in my ear. He was behind me, I hadn’t even heard him—sensed him either.
I turned around, looking up at him. His expression was masked, I couldn’t truly know what he was thinking.
“You’re distracted,” Kieran said quietly, his eyes flicking to the target behind me, then back to my face. “Again.”
“I’m training,” I shot back. “That’s the point.”
“You’re throwing knives like you’re angry at the wood, not like you’re trying to hit it.”
“I am hitting it.”
He stepped past me without asking, pulling the blade from the target with one sharp tug. The wood groaned before the knife came free, splinters falling to the dirt between us. He turned it once in his hand, testing the weight like it belonged to him.
“You’re overcompensating, you grip too tight when you’re thinking about something else.”
“I’m not thinking about anything else.”
Kieran raised a brow, finally letting a hint of that familiar, irritating amusement show through.
“You almost dropped your sword when I walked in.”
My jaw tightened. Of course he noticed.
“You always know where I am,” I muttered. “It’s annoying.”
“You’re loud.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to.”
Kieran stepped closer, close enough that I could get a true look at the scar covering his eye, the one he never talked about—the one I caused. His voice dropped, not teasing now—quieter, steadier.
“You feel different when you’re upset. Hard to miss.”
I hated that he could say things like that so easily. Like it didn’t mean anything.
I held my hand out. “Give it back.”
He didn’t.
Instead, he flipped the knife once, then tossed it toward me without warning. I caught it on instinct, the hilt slapping against my palm harder than I expected.
“Again,” he said.
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“No,” he agreed. “You never do.”
I turned back to the target, forcing my shoulders to relax. Focus. Grip, balance, breath. I threw the knife. It hit clean, dead center, the crack echoing across the yard. I let out a slow breath, satisfied despite myself. Behind me, he hummed softly.
“Better.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “Just relieved you remember how to fight without setting the palace on fire.”
I froze.
Of course he was going to bring that up.
I turned slowly, glaring at him. “You weren’t even there.”
“No,” he said, meeting my eyes without flinching. “But I saw what was left after.”
Something in my chest tightened, sharp and sudden. The throne room. The shadows. The burn-out. The way everyone had looked at me after like I was something unstable.
My grip on the knife shifted.
“Ziselaer said the same thing,” I muttered. “Use the sword. Don’t rely on the shadows.”
“She’s right.”
“You don’t even like her.”
“I don’t have to like her to know she’s right.”
The prince remains correct. Ziselaer spoke, amusement in her tone.
I scoffed, turning away again, but before I could reach for another blade, his hand closed around my wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough to stop me.
The contact sent a jolt straight up my arm, my shadows twitching at the edge of my control before I forced them down.
“Kieran,” I warned.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
I tried to pull my hand free. He didn’t let go.
For a second neither of us moved, the wind pushing dust across the circle around our boots, the yard still empty enough that no one was close enough to pretend not to watch.
His voice dropped again, softer than before.
“You don’t have to prove anything right now.”
My throat tightened, and I hated that it did.
“I’m not proving anything,” I said. “I’m training.”
“You’re punishing yourself.”
That hit harder than anything else he’d said.
I looked up at him, really looked this time, and whatever I expected to see on his face wasn’t there.
No smirk, no teasing. Just that steady, unreadable look that always made it impossible to tell if he was about to argue with me or drag me out of the yard by force.
“…Let go,” I said quietly.
His fingers loosened, but he didn’t step back right away.
“You burn out again,” he said, just as quiet, “and I won’t stay out of it next time.”
I frowned. “You weren’t in it this time.”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
“That wasn’t my choice.”