Chapter Fifteen: The Bloody Hill
The sword fight began as an argument and ended as a revelation.
It was the tenth day of Clara's forced companionship. The morning had started badly—Ariyana had arrived late to the stables, Edwin had criticized her riding posture, and the exchange had escalated from cold silence to sharp words within minutes. By the time they reached the western training grounds—a secluded clearing ringed by bare oaks—they were both breathing fire.
"You think because you bloodied my nose, you are my equal," Edwin said, unbuckling his sword belt. The practice blades were stored in a weather-beaten chest at the edge of the clearing, left there for guards who trained in isolation.
"I think I am your superior," Ariyana replied, watching him draw two practice swords—blunted steel, weighted to mimic the real thing. "But you are not ready to admit that."
Edwin tossed her a sword. She caught it one-handed, the weight familiar in her grip.
"I did not know you could handle a blade."
"There are many things you do not know about me, Your Highness."
He settled into a defensive stance, his practice sword raised, his eyes cold and assessing. "Then show me."
---
She showed him.
The first clash of steel echoed through the clearing like a thunderclap. Edwin attacked first—a probing strike, meant to test her reflexes. Ariyana parried easily, sliding into a counterattack that forced him back a step.
His eyes widened.
"Where did you learn—"
"Theodore." She struck again, faster this time, aiming for his ribs. He blocked, but barely. "For two years. In secret. Before you sent him away."
Edwin's jaw tightened. He pressed forward with a flurry of strikes—high, low, high again—each one harder than the last. Ariyana met them all, her feet moving in the precise patterns Theodore had drilled into her, her blade singing against his.
"You are good," Edwin admitted, breathing harder now.
"I am better than good."
She proved it.
She feinted left, drew his guard, and spun inside his reach. The flat of her blade cracked against his ribs—not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough to hurt.
Edwin grunted, stumbling back.
"You fight like a knight," he said, his voice edged with something between anger and admiration.
"It is in my blood."
---
Neither Would Yield
They circled each other, the frosty grass crunching beneath their boots. Edwin's breathing was ragged now, his practice sword held low, his eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.
"You could yield," she said. "I would not think less of you."
"I would think less of myself."
He attacked again—faster, harder, abandoning the careful forms of training for raw aggression. Ariyana met him blow for blow, her arms burning, her lungs screaming, but she did not retreat.
Their swords locked, hilt to hilt, their faces inches apart.
"Yield," he snarled.
"Never."
She shoved him back, broke the lock, and lunged.
Edwin twisted aside, but not fast enough. Her blade caught his shoulder—a solid hit that would have drawn blood on a sharpened edge. He cursed, dropped his defensive stance, and grabbed her sword arm with both hands.
"You fight dirty," he said.
"You fight predictable."
They struggled in the center of the clearing, her sword trapped between them, his hands locked around her wrists. Neither would let go. Neither would give an inch.
"You are the most infuriating woman I have ever met," he said through gritted teeth.
"And you are the most arrogant man I have ever had the misfortune to know."
"Good. Then we are even."
---
The Takedown
Edwin changed tactics.
Instead of trying to disarm her, he stepped inside her guard, wrapped an arm around her waist, and lifted.
Ariyana's feet left the ground. She thrashed, kicked, tried to bring her sword around, but he was too strong—and too fast. Before she could react, he had shifted his grip, thrown her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, and pinned her legs against his chest.
"Put me down!" she shrieked, beating her free fist against his back.
"No."
"You insufferable—"
"You fought well." He started walking, her sword still clutched in her hand, her body draped over his shoulder like a trophy. "But you are also half my weight and a foot shorter. Did you think I would not use my advantages?"
"I thought you had honor!"
"I have survival instinct. There is a difference."
She kicked harder. He did not even stagger.
---
The Hill
He carried her up the slope of a low hill overlooking the training grounds—a grassy rise dotted with winter-bare rocks, the sky a pale, washed-out blue above them. At the summit, he stopped, shifted her weight, and set her down—not gently, but not cruelly either. Her boots hit the frozen grass, and she stumbled, catching herself before she fell.
"You are a beast," she said, shoving her hair out of her face.
"You are a terror." He was breathing hard, a thin line of sweat tracing his temple, but his eyes were bright—almost amused. "We are well matched."
"We are nothing alike."
"No." He looked at her—really looked at her—and something in his expression softened. Just slightly. Just enough to make her wary. "You are braver than I ever gave you credit for. Stronger. More stubborn." He paused. "More beautiful, if I am being honest."
Ariyana's cheeks flushed—with anger, she told herself. Not anything else. "Your honesty is neither required nor desired."
"Noted."
He stepped closer. She stepped back.
Her heel found the edge of the hill.
She glanced down—not a sheer drop, but steep enough to break an ankle, a leg, perhaps her neck if she fell wrong. The rocks below were sharp, unforgiving.
"Careful," Edwin said, his voice maddeningly calm. "I would hate to lose my betrothed to gravity."
"Your concern is touching."
"It is not concern. It is practicality. Finding another bride would be tedious."
She glared at him, her fists clenching at her sides. The practice sword was still in her hand—she had forgotten to drop it. She tightened her grip.
"If you could choose anyone," she said, "anyone in the world, would you still choose me?"
He was silent for a long moment. The wind whipped between them, cold and restless.
"No," he said finally. "But I cannot choose. Neither can you. So we make the best of what we have."
"And what do we have?"
"A promise. A cage. A future neither of us wanted." He stepped closer—one step, then another, until she could feel the warmth of his body against the winter chill. "But perhaps—"
"Perhaps what?"
His hand shot out, catching her wrist. Not hard. Not painful. But firm. Anchoring.
"Perhaps it does not have to be miserable."
---
The Smirk
Ariyana tried to pull free. He held fast.
"Let me go."
"No."
"Edwin—"
"If you jump from this hill," he said, his voice low and steady, his eyes fixed on hers, "I will happily marry you and make you my Queen."
She froze.
"What?"
"You heard me." His lips curved—not a full smile, but a smirk. Smug. Infuriating. Utterly certain of himself. "You want to escape this betrothal. You think death is preferable to marriage. But I am telling you—jump, and I will follow. I will drag you back from whatever afterlife awaits, and I will marry you in front of the gods and the court and everyone who has ever whispered about you. I will put a crown on your head, and I will make you mine."
"That is not—you cannot—"
"I can." He stepped closer, his hand sliding from her wrist to her waist, steadying her on the edge of the hill. "I am the Crown Prince of Valerius. I can do whatever I please."
"You are impossible."
"I am patient." His smirk widened. "And you, Lady Ariyana, are running out of cliffs to throw yourself from."
She wanted to hit him. She wanted to scream. She wanted to—she did not know what she wanted. But his hand was warm on her waist, and the hill was steep behind her, and his eyes were no longer cold. They were something else. Something she could not name.
"If I had a real sword," she said, "I would run you through."
"If you had a real sword, you would have to find my heart first." He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. "And I am not sure you know where it is."
"I know exactly where it is. Hidden behind years of arrogance and self-pity."
His smirk faded. Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, perhaps. Or anger. Or both.
"You know nothing of my heart."
"And you know nothing of mine."
---
The Kiss That Wasn't
They stood on the edge of the hill, her back to the drop, his hand on her waist, their faces inches apart. The wind had died. The world had gone silent.
"If you fall," Edwin said quietly, "I will catch you."
"I do not need you to catch me."
"Everyone needs someone to catch them. Even you."
She wanted to argue. She wanted to push him away, to step back, to prove that she needed no one—that she had survived nine years in his father's court without his help, his kindness, his care.
But his hand was warm. And his eyes were no longer cold. And the edge of the hill was very, very close.
"Let me go," she whispered.
"I will throw you from here," he said, "or perhaps I will kiss you until you forget being stubborn."
"You would not dare."
"Try me."
She looked at his mouth—at the curve of his lips, still bearing the faint shadow of that infuriating smirk. She thought about what it would feel like. The warmth. The pressure. The surrender.
No.
She stepped back.
Her heel found nothing but air.
---
The Fall
She did not scream.
There was no time.
The ground vanished beneath her feet, and she was falling—tumbling backward, the grey sky spinning above her, the sharp rocks rushing up to meet her.
Then his hand caught hers.
Not her wrist. Her hand. Fingers lacing with fingers, palm against palm, grip tight enough to bruise.
Edwin had lunged forward, thrown himself flat on the hill's edge, and caught her. His body was braced against a gnarled root, his legs hooked around a rocky outcropping, his face white with strain.
"Do not—" he grunted, pulling hard, "—do that again."
She dangled above the rocks, her weight suspended by his grip alone. The practice sword had fallen, clattering down the slope, lost to the frost and stone.
"Let me go," she said.
"No."
"I said let me—"
"I heard what you said." He pulled again, dragging her upward inch by inch. His muscles trembled. His jaw was locked. "And I am choosing to ignore it."
"Why?"
He did not answer. He just pulled—once, twice, three times—until her free hand found the edge of the hill, her fingers scrabbling for purchase in the frozen grass.
Together, they crawled back from the edge.
Together, they collapsed on the cold ground, chests heaving, hearts pounding.
---
You Would Rather Die
Edwin rolled onto his side, propping himself on one elbow. His face was inches from hers. His breath came in ragged gasps.
"You would rather die," he said, "than marry me."
It was not a question.
Ariyana stared up at the grey sky. Her hand was still in his. She did not pull away.
"Yes," she said. "I would rather die than be your burden. Your charity case. The obligation you tolerate because your father made a promise he should never have sworn."
Edwin was silent for a long moment.
Then: "You are not a burden."
"I am to you."
"You are to no one." His voice was fierce, almost angry. "You are the strongest person I have ever known, Ariyana. You survived this court—my court—for nine years without breaking. You faced my stepmother's cruelty, my siblings' mockery, my own cold indifference. And you never once begged. Never once wept where they could see. Never once gave them the satisfaction of watching you crumble."
She turned her head, meeting his eyes. They were no longer glacial. They were dark, intense, burning with something she could not name.
"You would rather die," he said again, softer this time, "than marry me."
"Yes."
"I will marry you at any cost." He lifted their joined hands, pressing her knuckles to his lips. The gesture was startlingly gentle—almost tender. "But I will never love you, Ariyana."
The words should have hurt. She had expected them to hurt. But they landed like stones dropped into deep water—heavy, yes, but absorbed. Swallowed.
"Neither do I," she said. "I already loved once. It died in my heart. No one can bloom it again."
---
The Silence
Edwin released her hand.
He lay on his back beside her, staring up at the same grey sky, his chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths.
"Theodore," he said.
It was not a question.
"Theodore," she agreed.
"Did he love you?"
"Yes."
"Did you love him?"
She was silent for a long moment. The wind had picked up again, cold fingers tugging at her hair, her dress, the edges of her composure.
"I do not know," she said finally. "I thought I did. Perhaps I did. Perhaps I still do. But he left. He wrote me a letter—a letter saying he had found someone else. Someone simple. Someone who made him laugh." Her voice cracked. "Someone who was not me."
Edwin's hand found hers again. She did not know if he reached for her, or if she reached for him. But their fingers intertwined on the cold ground, and she did not pull away.
"He is a fool," Edwin said.
"He is kind."
"Kindness without loyalty is useless. He promised you something, and he broke that promise. That makes him a fool. Or a coward. Perhaps both."
Ariyana turned her head, looking at his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the dark stubble along his cheek, the faint scar she had noticed before.
"You have never promised me anything."
"No." He turned to face her, their noses almost touching. "But I have never lied to you, either. Not once. Not about my indifference. Not about my coldness. Not about my unwillingness to love you."
"That is a low bar, Your Highness."
"It is the only bar I have." He squeezed her hand. "I will marry you. I will protect you. I will ensure you want for nothing. But I will not pretend to feel what I do not feel. And I will not ask you to pretend, either."
Ariyana looked at their joined hands—his long, callused fingers tangled with hers, warm despite the cold.
"That is not nothing," she said.
"No," he agreed. "It is not nothing."
---
The Return
They walked back to the palace in silence, their shoulders almost touching, their hands no longer joined but no longer distant. Edwin's nose had started bleeding again—a delayed reaction to her earlier strike—and Ariyana's dress was torn at the hem, stained with grass and mud.
The servants stared.
The courtiers whispered.
Clara, watching from her window, smiled her thin, satisfied smile.
But Edwin and Ariyana did not notice.
They were too busy not looking at each other.
Too busy pretending that nothing had changed.
Too busy lying to themselves about the warmth that had flickered to life on a cold hill, in a moment of anger and fear and something that might—someday—become more.
---
The Aftermath
That night, Ariyana sat alone in her chamber, the sunburst pendant cold against her heart.
She had told Edwin the truth. She had loved Theodore—or thought she had—and that love had died. Had been killed by distance and silence and a letter that still lived beneath her floorboard, tied with a ribbon of green velvet.
But as she sat in the darkness, her hand still warm from where Edwin had held it, she wondered.
Was love something that bloomed only once? A single flower, fragile and brief, destined to wither and never return?
Or was it something else? Something that could be planted again, in different soil, under a different sky?
She did not know.
She was seventeen years old, and she had survived nine years in a gilded cage. She had lost her father, her mother, her hope, her heart. She had nothing left except a promise she had never made and a future she had never wanted.
But somewhere in the darkness, a tiny flame flickered.
Not love.
Not yet.
But something.
And perhaps—perhaps—that something was enough.
---
Across the palace, Edwin stood at his window, staring out at the same dark sky.
He had told Ariyana the truth. He would marry her. He would protect her. He would never love her.
But as he pressed his palm against the cold glass, he remembered the weight of her hand in his. The flash of her eyes in the moment before she fell. The sound of her voice, fierce and unbroken, telling him she would rather die than be his burden.
She was not a burden.
She had never been a burden.
She was a storm, wrapped in silk and shadow, and he had spent nine years pretending not to see her.
He could not pretend any longer.
But he could not love her, either.
Could he?
He turned from the window, poured himself a glass of wine, and drank alone in the darkness.
And somewhere in the space between them—across corridors and courtyards, through stone walls and iron doors—the tiniest seed of something new took root in the frozen ground.
It would take years to bloom.
If it bloomed at all.
But it was there.
Waiting.
---