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Poet glided across the training yard, twirling the steel staff around his body, flipping and spinning the rod along his waist and over his head, the weapon leaping and dancing around his shoulders. The intent was to dizzy an opponent before executing a blow. For the vast majority of the time, it worked on other soldiers. Despite being an average of ten years their senior, the man possessed a speed and flexibility that defied age, a product of exercise, discipline, and a gift for agility that each knight aspired to.

Still, with his First Knight, Poet required additional stealth and more clever sleights of hand. I knew his tricks, though that was not the case during this morning’s practice. Almost too late catching sight of his approach, I swung my blade. Steel rang, the clap-clap-clap of our weapons as we moved and countered across the lawn.

My sword answered, flying toward his gut, forcing him into a backflip. Snapping upright, he twisted and angled his body in an exaggerated manner, catching my second thrust with a backhanded block.

Very few, if any, could maneuver a weapon and a body in tandem as he did. As a champion of acrobatics and juggling, he challenged the kinetics of combat in a profound way. What his lean muscles lacked in girth, he made up for in slyness.

Seizing his window of opportunity, Poet turned me on the defensive, plotting his moves three steps ahead. He lunged while I intercepted.

Behind him, my gaze stumbled upon one of the training mannequins. Strung to a pole, it resembled the one I’d once eradicated many moons ago, its sightless puppetry eyes cornering me.

A rod swooped into my vision. I spun, my sword trapping the weapon in place.

The jester’s green eyes twinkled. “You’re either stalling—”clap, “—or pining. Either way—”clap“—it offends me—”clap“—to know—”clap“—that I’m not—” he quirked a brow “—the center of attention.”

He pivoted, the staff flashing, spiraling toward my head. My sword vaulted against it, fending off the blow.

We disengaged, panting for breath. The sun brushed the dew-pebbled grass and our bare skin, trickles of sweat cutting down our torsos. It had been a long but fruitless match, for I was not invested, nor at my best.

The jester flipped his staff until it landed on the ridges of his shoulders, his arms dangling over the length. He canted his head, his mouth at a wry tilt. “’Twas only nostalgia that kept me from cracking that golden head of yours.”

I drove my sword into the dirt. “Your pardon, Master Jester. Of late, I am out of sorts and out of practice.”

“Mmm-hmm. Except I wasn’t lauding your physical prowess, my excellent dexterity, or our glistening masculinity. I was speaking of cracking sense into your daft skull. I have some experience with follies of the heart, especially when bred of stupidity and stubbornness. Hence, my nostalgia.”

The jester twirled his staff like a baton. “By the by, what do you think? ’Tis a fine design, however I’m thinking of updating to something customized. Something...” he wiggled the fingers of his free hand, the onyx-painted nails skipping. “Something moreme.”

“Showy, you mean?”

“Think grander. Something narcissistic. Perhaps inlays or jewels that stab, perhaps a bit of tinsel. Or nay, perhaps my immortal name engraved into the steel.”

“Your name is already engraved into it.”

“Not nearly large enough.”

I chuckled as I wiped a cloth across the back of my neck.

He buried the staff beside my sword. “Pray tell. Are you acquainted with any splendid weaponsmiths? One whom I might entrust this momentous and flattering job to?”

The wind stole his question and my humor. “You have a host of praiseworthy smiths at your disposal,” I reminded him.

“Lo, I didn’t ask for praiseworthy. I asked for splendid.” He surveyed me in a way that only a court jester surveyed his victims, targets, and conquests. The gaze of a professionally trained fool picked through vulnerabilities like threads, deciding which ones to snip in half by means of wit or mockery.

“Indeed,” he goaded. “Perhaps I’ll have a new weapon commissioned.”

I knew better than to engage. Yet I halted, taking his measure. “By whom, then?”

Poet gave me a ruthless smile, saying nothing more as my psyche conjured a particular face. Three months had passed since I saw her last. It felt as though it had been somewhere between three hours and three years.

I’d heard about Poet and Briar returning to the treehouse colony with Aspen, to verify her theory on the acorn. I’d heard of the outcome and felt proud of her. She had worked alongside the jester and princess, the end result a remarkable one, another benchmark of progress for the kingdom and its people.

Even if I hadn’t been demoted at the time, under strict probation by order of the Crown, I would not have accompanied them. It would not have done Aspen, nor myself, any good.

It had taken me this long to atone for my mistakes and earn my rank back.

“Having a fancier weapon won’t make you a better fighter,” I said.

“Being a better fighter won’t make you a better hero,” Poet countered.