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Then, he showed her how to twist her wrist just right to stab him without hurting herself. The target was the inside of his thigh, a painful and disabling blow. The very idea sent chills down her spine, but Eldrion was resolute.

“It is not about causing permanent harm,” he reminded her. “It’s about causing enough damage for you to get away.”

“Alright,” Anthea said. “Show me again.”

They went over the motion again and again, Eldrion urging her to use more force, hit him quicker, harder, assuring her she wouldn’t really hurt him with the wooden blade.

Anthea felt an odd sense of satisfaction each time she managed to escape from his grip, each successful move a small victory against her own fear. Every stab she landed, every move she executed perfectly, made her feel a little bit stronger, a little bit more capable.

They were outside of the castle: Beldor was leading her through the trails of the castle’s garden. Anthea still, after all those weeks, marveled at the gnarled trees and moss-covered rocks that seemed to be lifted straight out of an enchanted storybook. Tiny mushrooms spotted the underbrush, their delicate silver caps capturing the dappled sunlight. The air was getting colder. Autumn was approaching fast.

“The council meeting with the scouts from the Golden City . . .” Anthea began, choosing her words as carefully as she chose her footing on the uneven ground, “Kaelan mentioned something about the last time when everyone thought the dragons were dead, but they weren’t. What happened then?”

Beldor paused, his eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for the right words—or perhaps the courage to utter them. “It is known as the Second Rebellion,” he finally said. He started walking again, and Anthea followed suit, listening intently. “The Crimson court became more vocal, voicing their support for the lesser races, advocating for better treatment, for rights. Queen Lynoria—she had her heart set on it. The Nephrite court joined in, supporting this promising shift of power. It was a moment of unity, but not one that pleased everyone.”

“Let me guess, by everyone, you mean the Obsidian court?”

“Taranath had recently ascended to the throne. He saw the call for more humane treatment, as a direct insult to his power. The retribution was swift and calculated,” Beldor said, taking her hand and helping her over a meandering stream that crisscrossed their path. “Two towns in the Crimson court’s territories were destroyed,” he said, his voice heavy. “Dragons swooped down in the dead of night, breathing fire that consumed everything. Taranath chose those towns with particular malice. One was the hometown of King Endoral’s mother, and the other was where the king himself had grown up. His childhood home was obliterated.”

Anthea felt her stomach churn with the horror of it. “And in the Nephrite court?” she asked.

“A similar fate,” he replied, his gaze never leaving the path ahead. “One town was reduced to ashes, and it just so happened that Princess Elythia lived there. No one saw it coming. They were acts of war cloaked in deceit and darkness.” Anthea didn’t need to see his face to know how hard it was for him to relive these moments. His tone showed it.

“What happened to Queen Lynoria?” she asked, remembering Endreth’s unwillingness to talk about his mother.

Beldor paused once more, this time not for a stream but for the gravity of what he was about to say. “There was a public execution, in the Golden City,” he said. “Taranath had invited all the courts to witness it. He had her husband and sons bound on stage and made to watch as he ordered a dragon to burn her alive.”

For a moment, she was floating in a void of pure horror. Anthea had wondered about the Crimson court’s motives in this conflict, but it seemed simple now. It was revenge. The image of Endreth, and Aegonar, helpless as their mother burned, was haunting. And then, they had to continue, continue to engage with the very court that had done it, for the sake of their court. How did they do it? She couldn’t imagine doing the same—Anthea could still hear the hushed murmurs in the courtroom, could still feel her nails biting into her palms, as she had willed herself not to scream, not to show any signs of weakness in front of the man responsible for her parents’ deaths. Her parents were dead, because he had wanted a couple of drinks before he drove home?—

She looked up from the rocky path and gasped—they had reached their destination, the waterfall. Its waters flowed gracefully down a series of black, moss-draped rocks, releasing a silver mist.

Beldor crouched down, gathering a handful from the shimmering pool, and drank.

Anthea quirked her brow. “You know that this could be contaminated?”

“These waters possess the tears of the moon goddess. Just a sip will restore your strength when you are weary.”

The corners of her lips twitched. “As water tends to do . . .” She trailed off, looking around. All around the beautiful watery pool were massive ferns and broad-leafed plants that swayed and danced without the presence of wind. The rocky mountain wall was almost pitch black, contrasting heavily with the verdant greenery. It was a strange oasis. Everywhere else the plants had started to take on their autumn colors. Here, it was still so green. Anthea sat down on one of the smoother rocks. With a quiet sigh, she looked back up at Beldor. “What about your parents, are they still alive?” she asked.

“My parents?” he echoed, leaning against one of the large trees, his arms folded across his chest. “My father was a warrior in the Nephrite legion, like me. He died during the conflict.” The tone of his voice was steady, carefully neutral, but his eyes—they held a glimmer of something deeper, an echo of old pain and loss. Anthea stayed silent, offering him an understanding nod. After a brief pause, he continued, the tension in his frame easing. “My mother, however, is still alive,” Beldor added, a slight softening of his eyes, a lightness seeping into his tone. His lips curled into a tender smile. “She lives in a village in the mountains with my younger sister. It’s a peaceful place, nestled between the woods and the river. She likes the tranquility and simplicity of it.” His voice held an affectionate note. “She’s always been fond of a quiet life, away from the courts and their games.”

Gathering a lighter tone in her voice, Anthea tilted her head, a teasing sparkle returning to her eyes. “So, you’re the eldest child in your family, huh?” she asked, a playful grin pulling at her lips. “Doesn’t that make you the responsible one?”

“Hardly.” Beldor smiled. “That would be my sister.”

“And Eldrion? What about his parents? Are they alive?” she asked, her voice soft.

“No,” he said after a brief pause.

“What happened?”

“Eldrion’s father was lost during the first rebellion,” Beldor said quietly. “He was a warrior—he fell just before Eldrion was born.”

“What about his mother?”

Beldor’s face hardened, the muscles in his jaw clenching visibly. “She is dead too,” he said quietly, shaking his head as if he didn’t want to share further.

“Come on, Anthea, same challenge,” Eldrion tossed her a wooden dagger.