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VEYLAN

T he ruined courtyard is deathly still. The mountain wind howls through the cracks in the stone walls, carrying the scent of snow and rot. The place was once a fortress, once a battlefield. Now, it is nothing but a graveyard of forgotten wars.

The perfect place to create a monster.

I watch her from the shadows. She is getting stronger. Her steps are more assured. Her strikes, sharper. But not sharp enough.

She still hesitates. She still fights like she expects mercy. There is no mercy in war.

I step forward, the crunch of frost beneath my boots the only sound in the silence. Sera stiffens at the noise but does not turn around. Good. At least she is learning not to react so easily.

"Again," I order.

She exhales sharply, but she does as I command.

The dagger flashes in her hand as she moves through the motions I drilled into her—twist, lunge, feint, strike. It is fluid, it is practiced, but it is still too controlled. Too human.

She is not supposed to be human anymore.

I move. Faster than she expects.

She does not see me coming until my blade is at her throat.

The shock in her eyes is a mistake. One I will carve out of her if I have to.

"You hesitate," I murmur.

Her fingers tighten around the dagger, but she does not strike. Another mistake.

I slam her backward into the stone wall. Not hard enough to break—just enough to make her remember.

"You hesitate, and you die."

Her breathing is uneven, the cold making her lips a shade too blue. Her pulse flutters against my blade. But it is not fear I see in her now.

It is anger.

She hates this. Hates me. Hates that I am right.

Good. Let her hate me.

Loathing is sharper than hesitation.

I step back and she lunges.

This time, she does not hesitate.

The dagger in her hand slashes toward my arm. I parry, sidestepping, but she is faster than before. She forces me back, her strikes wilder, untamed. There is no grace in her attack now, only survival.

The way she moves—reckless, desperate—it is almost beautiful.

Almost.

Her foot slips on the frost-slick stone. The moment is hers to take, but she loses it.

I punish her for it.

I grip her wrist, twist, and force the dagger from her grasp. A single breath, and she is pinned beneath me again.

"Dead," I growl.

She shudders, frustration seething beneath her skin.

"Again."

Her lips part, and I expect defiance. But then?—

She sings.

It is a soft, slow sound, but it is enough.

The world shifts.

The ice in my veins seizes. My body locks. A deep, primal instinct fights against her magic, but it is too late—I am momentarily frozen.

I can still see her. Can still think. But my muscles—they do not obey me.

She bends, retrieves her dagger, and presses the tip to my throat.

Her eyes burn with something new.

I see it then—the shift.

Not fear. Not hesitation. Not even satisfaction.

She is becoming something else.

Her lips curl. "You told me not to hesitate."

The paralysis breaks.

My hand snaps up, knocking the dagger away, sending it clattering against the stone. She gasps as I flip her, pinning her beneath me once more. My fingers are at her throat, pressing just enough.

We are both breathing too hard.

The moment stretches, and questions appear in my head. What was that?

She could have killed me.

"Enough," I say.

I release her and step back, turning away before she can see what she has done to me.

Before I have to acknowledge it.

But then—the messenger comes.

A dark elf, dressed in the black leathers of my council’s personal scouts. They always have ways to track their intended receiver.

He does not bow. Does not kneel. Only delivers the message.

A decree.

Hazeran’s voice is not here, but I can hear it anyway as I read the parchment.

You are no longer my son.

You are no longer my heir.

You are no longer Drazharel.

I expected this. It does not lessen the blow.

Sera watches me.

She does not ask what the message says. She already knows from the look on my face.

"Your father made his move," she murmurs.

My grip tightens around the parchment until it crumbles in my fist.

Hazeran did not just strip me of my title. He has made his intent clear.

I exhale slowly.

Sera tilts her head, watching me with the same calculating gaze I once used against her.

"Are we going to talk about what just happened?" she asks.

I meet her gaze.

"No."