Kael took a deep breath.
Slowly, he placed his hand on the cracked ground and began to stand.
His body still ached—not from serious injuries, but from the brutal, honest impact, typical of the Ainsworths. His muscles protested, his head still buzzed, but his balance returned too quickly for someone who had "just woken up from a coma."
This detail did not go unnoticed.
The exact instant Kael raised his torso—
"Don't move."
Irelia's voice came out low.
Dangerous.
Kael looked up.
She already had her sword in hand.
There was no hesitation.
No trembling.
The blade reflected the courtyard light, perfectly aligned with his heart. Her posture was impeccable—firm base, low center, intent as sharp as the sword itself.
She was no longer the girl who trained to reach him.
She was someone who expected to face him. "Irelia…" Kael began.
She lunged forward.
Without warning.
Without a cry.
Without mercy.
The blade cut through the air in a perfect arc, aimed at his neck.
