Raven — POV
The dawn broke with a hushed serenity, a stark contrast to the tumultuous dreams that often haunted me. This time, no nightmares stirred me from my restless slumber, but the night had still left its mark, my sleep shallow and fragmented. As the first light crept into my small room, I dressed in my familiar attire of black—a color that had become a second skin, a uniform of sorts for the life I led.
After hours of rigorous training, my body ached pleasantly, a reminder of my dedication. The cold shower that followed was invigorating, sharpening my senses and washing away the remnants of fatigue. I moved to the kitchen, the aroma of breakfast wafting through the air, beckoning the children from their dreams. Their laughter and sleepy chatter filled the space as they gathered around the table, drawn by the promise of warm bread and hearty stew.
Once breakfast was finished and the children taken care of, I assisted Sister Mary with her daily chores. The rhythmic tasks were familiar and grounding, a comforting routine amidst the chaos of my life. Afterward, I made my way to Elyra's house, anticipation fluttering in my chest as I stood outside, waiting for her.
When she emerged, she looked composed and practical as ever, her cloak fastened neatly at her shoulders. Her expression was calm but hinted at deeper thoughts, a reflection of her keen mind. We set off together toward the palace, our footsteps echoing softly on the cobblestones as we walked in unhurried harmony.
The city around us was vibrant, waking up as the late morning sun ascended toward its zenith. Sunlight filtered through the tall stone buildings, illuminating stained-glass windows that sparkled like jewels and painted shop signs that swayed gently in the breeze. Though the magic lamps hung silent in daylight, they added an air of enchantment to the bustling streets.
Merchants called out from their open stalls, their voices weaving a tapestry of trade and persuasion, a constant hum that filled the air. Baskets brimming with shimmering fruits glowed in unnatural hues, some enchanted to remain fresh for weeks. Bolts of fabric in rich blues, golds, and deep royal purples rippled like water as they were shaken out, each piece telling a story of craftsmanship and artistry.
Children darted between the throngs of people, their laughter echoing off the stone walls, while travelers in cloaks from far-off lands paused to study their maps or haggle in accents foreign to my ears. Nearby, a bard strummed a soft melody on a stringed instrument, the notes drifting through the air, soothing amidst the chaos.
I inhaled deeply, the air rich with the scents of warm bread, metal, herbs, and dust—a comforting reminder that life was still vibrant and alive.
Elyra walked beside me, her hands folded neatly behind her back, her gaze sweeping across the street with quiet interest. After a moment, she spoke, her voice thoughtful. "It's changed. The city feels fuller than it did years ago."
I nodded in agreement. "The kingdom's been more stable recently. Trade has increased, and there are fewer border conflicts."
She hummed in acknowledgment. "Stability attracts people. And people attract trouble."
I glanced at her, a smirk tugging at my lips. "You're not wrong."
As we continued our journey, the palace's spires came into view, rising above the city like pale stone spears capped with gold. We passed a fountain intricately carved with protective runes, a testament to the kingdom's rich history. Elyra broke the silence again. "You're training the princess today?"
"Yes," I replied, the thought both exciting and daunting.
"And the family from Ardellum is still around?" she inquired, her tone casual.
"They left yesterday," I said, "but their presence lingers."
Elyra's smile was knowing. "It usually does."
I hesitated, then added, "Lyria is improving quickly. Faster than I expected."
"Does that surprise you?" she asked, a hint of teasing in her voice.
I considered the question, reflecting on Lyria's determination and keen attention. "A little. She's truly dedicated."
Elyra glanced at me sideways, her expression unreadable, but she remained silent as we crossed a bridge over a narrow canal. The water below glinted in the sunlight, enchanted fish darting between shadows. Guards stood vigilant at either end, their polished armor gleaming, eyes sharp and alert.
"Are you nervous?" Elyra asked suddenly, her tone shifting.
I shook my head, though a small part of me quivered with unease. "No."
A silence hung between us before she added, "That wasn't the question."
Sighing, I admitted, "I don't like being the reason someone else has to change their life."
Elyra stopped walking, and I turned to face her. "Raven," she said firmly, "I made this decision because I wanted to, not because you asked me to."
"I know," I replied, a weight settling in my chest. "But still…"
She reached out, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder for a fleeting moment. "Carrying guilt for things beyond your control won't protect anyone."
I remained silent, the truth of her words sinking in as we resumed our walk.
Approaching the palace gates, the lively chaos of the city faded, replaced by a quiet order. The streets widened, the stone smoother underfoot, the atmosphere thick with authority. The towering gates stood open, regal banners fluttering above, each emblazoned with the royal crest.
Two guards stepped forward, their spears crossing briefly before they lowered them in recognition. "The King is expecting you," one said respectfully. "Please, follow me."
We passed through the gates and entered the palace grounds, where the gardens were immaculate. Paths of white stone wound through carefully pruned hedges, and fountains murmured softly, the enchanted waters eternally clear. Here, the air felt different—thick with magic, controlled and potent.
We navigated arched hallways where sunlight streamed through high windows, illuminating murals depicting ancient battles and crowned rulers long gone. Each echoing step served as a reminder of the smallness of one person within these grand walls.
At last, we halted before a tall set of carved doors. "The King awaits you inside," the guard announced, bowing slightly before stepping aside.
Elyra inhaled deeply, and I mirrored her gesture, the air heavy with anticipation. Whatever transpired next would alter our paths in ways none of us could foresee.
I knocked on the door twice, the sound reverberating against the thick wood, heavy with sigils meant to ward, protect, and remind visitors of their place.
"Enter."
The voice that responded was calm but carried an undeniable weight.
Pushing the door open slowly, I stepped inside. The King stood near a wide desk at the chamber's center, sunlight spilling in from tall arched windows behind him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in dark royal garments trimmed with gold—simple yet dignified. His posture was straight, commanding, a presence that filled the room without effort.
His eyes were sharp and observant, calculating but not cruel. Despite the authority he exuded, a faint smile rested on his lips—small, controlled, the expression of a man who understood power well enough not to flaunt it.
Elyra stepped in beside me, her demeanor steady.
"Welcome both of you , Please," the King gestured toward the chairs across from his desk. "Sit. Let us speak."
Before Elyra could move, I interjected. "Your Majesty," I said evenly, inclining my head, "if you will permit me—I would rather not stay."
The King paused, studying me with an intensity that made my heart race. "My student is waiting," I continued, my voice steady. "Princess Lyria and Lady Kara. I've already delayed them once , and I do not wish to do so again."
Silence enveloped the room for a brief moment, and then the King's smile deepened—just slightly, but enough to break the tension. "Very well," he said, his tone respectful. "I appreciate your sense of responsibility."
Turning toward Elyra, I said quietly, "When you're finished, come to the training yard. I'll be there."
She nodded once, determination in her gaze. "I won't be long."
With a formal bow to the King, I turned away, the door closing behind me and the weight of the chamber lifting from my shoulders. The path ahead remained uncertain, but I felt a flicker of hope amidst the shadows.
The corridors of the palace lay shrouded in a hushed serenity, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of the city beyond its high stone walls. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors—blue, amber, crimson—onto the cold, hard floors. Each step I took echoed softly, a rhythmic reminder of my presence in this sacred space, my movements deliberate and measured.
Externally, I maintained a façade of calm, but internally, I felt the tumult brewing just beneath the surface. I exhaled slowly, allowing the cool air to escape my lungs, as if releasing some of the tension that had built up inside me.
Today was not a day I wanted to face the princess.
Yesterday had been a whirlwind—an unexpected offer, the palpable tension hanging in the air, and the way her eyes had scrutinized me, searching for truths I was not ready to reveal. I knew she would have questions, too many questions, and I was ill-equipped to answer the ones that truly mattered.
As I walked past servants and guards, I offered polite nods, my mind already wandering ahead to the training yard. The thought of wooden swords and controlled movements called to me, promising a simplicity that felt comforting. I needed to focus on the physical, on the tangible, not on the unspoken emotions that swirled around us like a tempest.
"Focus on training," I reminded myself, a mantra against the distractions of expressions and feelings that threatened to overwhelm me.
Yet, the image of Lyria waiting for me lingered in my thoughts—she would be there, probably feigning calm, though I doubted she was fooling anyone. A sigh escaped my lips, barely a whisper, but it felt heavy with the weight of my apprehension.
Whatever awaited me in the training yard, I resolved to face it as I faced all challenges—head-on. Even if a nagging part of me knew that this encounter would be more daunting than any blade I had ever wielded.
As I approached the training yard, the late morning sun climbed higher in the sky, bathing the open space in a warm glow. The stone walls absorbed the light, creating a sanctuary away from the world outside.
And there they were.
Lyria sat with Kara on a low stone bench, their laughter bubbling into the air, an unexpected melody that caught me off guard. The younger princess, Evanna, was with them, her laughter bright and carefree, filling the space with a lightness that seemed foreign to me. I slowed my pace, drawn in by the joy radiating from them.
So she can laugh, I thought, my heart tightening. I had seen Evanna watch from a distance before, always silent, always careful—as if the world might shatter if she spoke too loudly. Yet here she was, shoulders relaxed, eyes glimmering with mischief and mirth.
But with that lightness came a familiar ache in my chest. Each time I drew near, she fell silent, retreating behind walls that seemed impenetrable. I couldn't help but conclude that she really didn't like me. It wasn't bitterness, just a stark acknowledgment of the truth.
A quiet voice echoed in my mind, Morivaine's gentle laughter, laced with amusement. "I truly don't blame her," it mused. "No matter how politely you smile, that face of yours still looks like something out of a nightmare, especially when you're angry."
I exhaled through my nose, a soft concession to my own absurdity. "Then it's probably better if I keep my distance," I murmured, unwilling to frighten the child.
I lingered a moment longer, observing them. How Kara leaned back with an ease that was enviable, how Lyria listened with an attentiveness that seemed to envelop the air around them. There was something different about her today—she looked calmer than yesterday, but that wasn't quite right. She was quieter, more withdrawn, a subtle shift that made my heart race.
Finally, I stepped forward, my boots barely making a sound against the packed earth. They didn't notice me at first; their laughter faded as the conversation slowed, unaware of my approach.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," I said gently, forcing a small, polite smile onto my face as I broke the spell of their laughter.
All three of them startled at my voice. Kara's eyes widened in surprise as she turned to me. "When did you get here?" she blurted. "We didn't hear you at all."
"I just arrived," I replied evenly, scanning their faces for any hint of what lay beneath their cheerful facade.
Lyria stood, smoothing her training shirt almost instinctively, her expression composed yet tinged with seriousness. "You're not interrupting," she said, her voice steady. "The servants told us you went with your master to see the King, so we assumed you'd be delayed."
I studied her intently, searching for clues. There it was again—that subtle difference. She wasn't tense, exactly, but there was an air of restraint about her, a quietness that felt heavier than before.
"Yes," I said after a brief pause, keeping my tone light. "I left them to speak on their own. It wasn't my place."
Shifting my stance, I added, "Are you ready to begin training?"
Kara perked up instantly, her energy flaring to life. "Always ready," she declared, her enthusiasm infectious.
Lyria hesitated for just a heartbeat, her gaze dropping before she answered. "Yes," she said softly, the weight of her response lingering in the air.
Concern bubbled up within me, and I stepped closer to her without thinking. "Are you alright, Princess?" I asked, my voice low and earnest. "If you're not feeling well, we can stop for today."
She shook her head firmly. "I'm fine," she insisted. "Let's train."
Yet, my frown deepened. She looked perfectly dressed—black training trousers, a fitted shirt, her silver hair pulled back neatly into a ponytail. Everything about her appeared normal, but there was an unsettling stillness about her.
She didn't quite meet my eyes for long, and the restraint in her voice was a stark contrast to the laughter that had filled the air moments before.
I searched her face for signs of illness or exhaustion but found only that quiet heaviness.
Slowly, I straightened, my resolve solidifying. "…Alright," I said, determined to bridge the gap between us. "Then we'll begin."
As I turned toward the weapons rack, a shiver of unease crept into my chest, an unnamed feeling that settled uncomfortably within me. Today's training session was supposed to be straightforward—an exercise in blades, balance, and discipline—but something whispered that this day would be anything but ordinary.
The sun cast long shadows across the training yard as we gathered at its center, the scent of fresh wood mingling with the crisp air. Three wooden swords lay before us, waiting to be wielded. But more than that, three very different presences loomed, each one charged with its own energy.
Kara stood loose and confident, her body language radiating a sense of playful defiance. She rolled her shoulders with an ease that suggested she was about to revel in the challenge. Energy pulsed from her, unrestrained and bold, a recklessness that only someone without fear could possess. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation, ready to embrace whatever came next.
In stark contrast, Lyria stood poised and composed. Too composed, I noted. Her grip on the wooden sword was impeccable, her stance practiced to perfection, and her posture flawless. Yet there was a distance in her eyes, a flicker of distraction that hinted at thoughts wandering far beyond the stone walls that contained us. It was as if her mind had slipped into another realm entirely, leaving her body here, dutifully executing the motions of a warrior.
On the bench, the younger princess sat quietly, hands neatly folded in her lap, her wide, observant eyes taking in every detail of our movements. She remained silent, as she always did, but her gaze missed nothing. In her stillness, she seemed to absorb the atmosphere, the tension, and the unspoken words that hung in the air.
I raised my voice, cutting through the silence with a command that demanded attention. "Today, we move to the next step," I announced, my tone steady. "Defense, parrying, and counterattacks."
Kara's grin widened instantly, a bright flash of enthusiasm. "Finally," she exclaimed, her eagerness palpable.
I chose to ignore the comment, continuing my pacing, each step measured and deliberate. "A sword is not just for striking. Anyone can swing a blade. What truly matters is what transpires between attacks—how you read your opponent, how you redirect force, and how you respond without hesitation."
With a decisive motion, I stepped forward, raising my wooden sword high. "Watch closely."
I initiated the first strike against Kara—not with speed, but with intention. She blocked instinctively, the clash of wood echoing through the yard, a dull crack that reverberated against the stone walls.
"Good," I praised, my voice steady. "Now, don't push back. Redirect."
She adjusted smoothly, parrying to the side as the force of my strike slid past her, dissipating rather than colliding head-on. There was a wildness in her movements, an unpredictability that made her a fierce opponent.
Lyria followed next, her approach cautious and calculated. Each motion she made was precise, almost elegant, as if she were dancing rather than fighting. She mirrored my stance perfectly, but I couldn't shake the feeling that her perfection was merely a façade.
We engaged in a series of slow exchanges—attack, block, redirect, counter.
Again and again, the rhythm of our training pulsed in the air. Kara adapted quickly, sometimes too quickly, overcommitting and relying on sheer strength rather than finesse. Lyria, however, was the opposite. Every movement was measured, calculated, yet there were fleeting moments—moments when her sword hesitated, when her focus wavered, and her eyes lost clarity for just the briefest second.
The first time it happened, I brushed it aside, telling myself it was nothing. The second time, I noted that her counter came late. By the third time, she completely missed my feint, her sword lingering in the air as if it were lost in thought.
I halted mid-motion, lowering my sword to give her my full attention. "Princess," I said quietly, my tone softening.
She blinked, as if pulled from a distant place back into the here and now. "Yes?" she replied, her voice steady but lacking its usual spark.
"You're drifting," I observed, concern threading through my words. "Are you sure you're alright?"
For a heartbeat, it seemed she might say something deeper, something raw and genuine. But then she straightened, her expression smoothing into a mask of calm politeness that felt rehearsed.
"I'm fine," she assured me. "Truly."
I held her gaze, searching for any sign of the truth beneath her words. Her breathing was steady, her posture strong—there was no physical weakness I could pinpoint. Yet her mind was a world away, lost in shadows I couldn't penetrate.
"…Alright," I finally conceded, though unease still gnawed at me. "Let's continue."
We resumed our training, but I adjusted my pace—slowing down when facing her, forcing her to react, to remain present in the moment. Still, my attention kept slipping back to her, drawn like a moth to a flame.
Every minor delay in her response. Every unfocused glance. Every breath that seemed to come a fraction too late.
Kara, immersed in her challenge, remained blissfully unaware, laughing under her breath whenever she landed a clean counter. But I noticed everything, and I hated that I did.
I had seen soldiers hide fear, fighters conceal their pain, and people who claimed they were fine right up until they collapsed. But Lyria wasn't hiding pain; she was hiding thoughts—thoughts that weighed heavily on her, like a burden she carried alone.
As we circled each other again, wooden blades meeting with a steady rhythm, I attacked. She parried. I stepped back, and for a brief moment, our eyes locked.
In that instant, I saw it.
Not weakness. Not fear.
Something far heavier. Something unspoken.
My grip tightened around the wooden sword, a reminder to focus. This was training. She was my student.
And yet, as we continued, one thought refused to leave my mind:
If she says she's fine… why does it feel like she's carrying something alone?
For the rest of the session, despite my best efforts to concentrate on form and technique, a part of me remained fixed on Lyria—watching, waiting, hoping she would let me in on whatever it was she kept hidden beneath her composed exterior.