Page 12

They relocated to the plaza, a vast, open space where the cold air could wash over them unimpeded.

They stood across from each other, a few paces apart, the distance between them deliberate and comfortable.

The fountain, frozen in its center, cast its muted reflection in the dim light, the chill of the night hanging in the air like a thick blanket.

The snow beneath their boots crunched softly with every movement, adding another layer of sound to the growing intensity between them.

Kaelen waited patiently as Thorne unsheathed his weapon, the sound of the blade leaving its scabbard a sharp contrast to the silence of the night.

Thorne swung the sword through the air, his movements sharp and deliberate, acclimating himself to its weight once again.

He hadn’t brought the sword with any real intention of using it—after all, this was supposed to be a night for something else entirely—but he wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity that had been gnawing at him for hours.

The tension that had been building, the strange pull between them, could be settled here, with the clash of metal and the thrill of a test.

His sword stilled to his side, and for a moment, fatigue tugged at him—fatigue from the last two weeks of constant strain, the trials of the evening still simmering low in his bones.

Yet, amidst the exhaustion, there was something else: a raw, unrelenting excitement that fluttered in his chest.

He wasn’t sure why, but he knew he wanted this.

With a brief nod, Thorne assumed his stance, his boots digging into the snow beneath him, finding his footing.

Kaelen mirrored him with a slight shift in his posture, setting his feet wide and shoulders back.

His stance was basic, not entirely optimal.

He didn’t seem uncomfortable, but it was clear that the sword was not his preferred weapon.

For a moment, they only stared at each other over their blades, the weight of the moment thick between them.

Thorne could feel Kaelen’s gaze on him, appraising him over the upturned edge of his sword.

Kaelen was searching—looking for weakness, for an opening, for fault. Thorne could feel the sharpness of his attention pressing against him, just as palpable as the cold night air.

Thorne took the first step, shifting forward in a smooth motion, testing the waters.

Kaelen responded immediately, shuffling to the left, drawing himself closer, angling his body to meet Thorne’s advance.

Thorne turned to face him fully again, his eyes narrowing as Kaelen smiled, a grin that was all teeth, something wild and predatory beneath its charm.

Without hesitation, Thorne darted forward, bringing his sword down on that grin.

Kaelen’s own sword was up in an instant, blocking him with ease, and then pushing him back.

Thorne reeled for a moment, realigning himself, before striking again, his movements fluid and practiced.

They met, blow for blow.

Kaelen pushed and deflected, his strength and skill evident in every movement.

Thorne darted and dodged, anticipating, reacting, always staying just a half-step ahead, always pushing back with an intensity that matched Kaelen’s.

Their blades clashed with a sharp clang, the sound reverberating in the silent garden like an affront to the stillness of the night.

Each strike, each parry, echoed in the cold air, the rhythmic exchange of violence breaking the deathly quiet of the evening.

Grunts, huffs, and the occasional hiss of breath filled the space between them, the dance of steel as natural as breathing.

But soon enough, two things became painfully clear.

The first: Kaelen did not fight like he danced.

When Kaelen danced, he was elegant, controlled, every step measured and precise.

He moved with an almost unnatural grace, a rigid posture that betrayed the effort it took to maintain his composure.

There was a deliberateness in his every movement, as if each motion was practiced, shaped by discipline, not instinct.

He was a man of control, of poised restraint.

But this? This was different.

The fluidity of Kaelen’s strikes, the way his body flowed with each movement, how the roll of his shoulder transferred into a perfect parry or a powerful thrust—it was natural, instinctual.

His gaze never wavered, never lost focus.

This was not the controlled, deliberate Kaelen Thorne had seen in the ballroom or during their dance.

This was something primal.

This was a man who had honed his body not for beauty, but for battle.

His movements were quick, powerful, and decisive.

The precision of his strikes, the calculated grace with which he turned each swing into a seamless flow, made it clear—Kaelen was no stranger to violence.

The second thing Thorne realized, however, was more infuriating than anything else.

Kaelen was holding back.

Thorne could feel it.

He could feel the tension through the steel, the power Kaelen was capable of, the effortless strength in the way he blocked and pushed Thorne back.

But Kaelen wasn’t trying.

He wasn’t pressing, wasn’t forcing the fight to an end.

Each time Thorne’s blade came down, Kaelen would block or deflect, but there was no fire, no hunger to end it.

He would pull a blow when he could have struck, half-heartedly parrying against Thorne’s attacks, and Thorne could feel the strain in the sword’s weight as Kaelen kept him at bay without ever fully committing.

Frustration boiled within him.

Thorne’s jaw tightened, his grip on the hilt of his sword tightening.

He could feel Kaelen’s restraint, and it made him angry.

He wasn’t about to be played with, not after everything, not after this night.

Thorne swung again, his blade aiming for Kaelen’s side.

As expected, Kaelen moved to block, his sword meeting Thorne’s with a screech of metal.

But this time, Thorne didn’t retreat.

He let the force of the blow push him, letting Kaelen’s sword carry him off balance just enough for Thorne to punch him square in the stomach.

The hit staggered Kaelen, and Thorne took advantage of the moment, kicking him sharply in the side.

Kaelen doubled over, sword dropping to his side as he caught his breath, his body hunched with the force of the blow.

For a moment, he coughed, a fist plunged into the snow to steady himself as his body trembled with the effort of righting itself.

Thorne stood there, watching him, feeling a strange mix of satisfaction and something else—something darker—as Kaelen drew himself back up, tall and defiant.

His eyes flashed with an intensity that sent a shiver down Thorne’s spine, and with a swift, fluid motion, Kaelen swung his sword down at the spot where Thorne had been standing just moments before.

Thorne darted to the side, the snow spraying up around him as he moved with a fluid, practiced grace.

The chill of the air stung his skin, but it was nothing compared to the raw power that Kaelen’s strike had just sent through the ground, shaking the earth beneath them.

The impact was almost visceral—the way Kaelen scored through the ice as if it were nothing more than paper, the force of the blow vibrating through Thorne’s boots and rattling his bones.

Kaelen’s sword hummed through the air, the sharpness of it a perfect contrast to the starlight reflecting off the snow.

Thorne’s eyes searched for Kaelen’s, and he found them, fierce and focused, the light of the moon caught within the shade of his bangs.

They locked for a moment—Kaelen’s gaze sharp, cutting through the night, and Thorne felt an almost imperceptible tightening in his chest.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

It was like staring down a storm—raw, untamed, and unpredictable.

The tension of it almost stung.

And then, Kaelen’s mouth drew up, a smile sharp as a blade, before he flicked his sword, sending shards of smashed ice tumbling down like stars in the moonlight.

Thorne grinned.

It was a reflex, sharp and immediate.

He had Kaelen’s attention now.

Kaelen wasted no time.

He threw himself at Thorne with a speed and ferocity that took Thorne by surprise.

His feet slipped back in the snow as Kaelen’s sword arced toward him, the two blades meeting with a resounding crash, their steel singing in the night air.

The sheer force of the impact rattled Thorne’s arms, but he didn’t give an inch.

They parted, then surged together again.

This time, there was more weight behind Kaelen’s blows, a deep, controlled power.

The intensity had shifted—Kaelen wasn’t holding back anymore.

Thorne met each of Kaelen’s strikes with his own, his sword slicing through the air, deflecting blows and countering with ones of his own.

The clash of their blades rang out through the garden, a sharp, rhythmic assault, the only sounds in the quiet night.

Thorne could feel the strain in his muscles, the exhaustion from the past few weeks and the trials of the evening weighing on him, but his body still moved with the thrill of the fight, the pulsing adrenaline driving him forward.

And Kaelen—Kaelen was relentless.

Thorne could feel the growing pressure of each blow, the mounting power behind each strike.

Kaelen’s tenacity was a force to be reckoned with.

He lacked the nimbleness of a dancer, but what he made up for with grace, he more than compensated with raw determination.

Thorne found himself being pushed back, forced into a corner.

His boots scraped against the frozen stone as he moved, the heel of his boot knocking into the base of the fountain, halting his retreat.

He was running out of space.

Kaelen reared back, his sword ready to swipe.

Thorne’s heart hammered in his chest, but before Kaelen could strike, Thorne lunged forward, using the momentum to push Kaelen back a step.

He pulled his blow at the last moment, twisting his body and leaping onto the edge of the fountain with a fluid motion.

The cold bite of the stone under his feet didn’t faze him.

He was already turning, aiming to strike.

Kaelen, however, recovered quickly.

His weapon arced up, but Thorne leaned away just in time, the sword whistling past him as it missed by a hair.

He retaliated with a downward strike, but Kaelen pivoted with the swiftness of a predator, sweeping the flat of his blade for Thorne’s knees.

Thorne jumped, clearing the strike, but Kaelen’s recovery was quick—his arm pulled back for another strike, relentless as ever.

Thorne didn’t hesitate.

He turned, pushing off the fountain and leaping across it, the snow beneath him slippery as he landed on the other side.

His boots skidded for a moment before he regained his footing, sword still in hand, poised at the ready.

But Kaelen had not pursued.

He remained on his side of the fountain, standing still with his sword at his side.

He wasn’t advancing, and yet, he was watching Thorne with an intensity that made the air between them thick with something unspoken.

Kaelen’s eyes were no longer filled with frustration or menace, but rather something else—something more akin to delight.

The pale light of the moon glinted off his features, the flushed color of his cheeks making him seem almost...human in a way that Thorne hadn’t expected.

His bangs had been pushed aside, revealing his full, intense gaze, and there was a gleam in his eyes—bright, playful.

The steam rising from his breath matched the rise and fall of his chest, the harshness of his breathing, and Thorne realized with a jolt that he had done this.

He had drawn out this reaction from Kaelen.

Thorne gripped his sword tighter, his breath coming in heavy bursts that formed in the cold air before dissipating.

His heart was pounding in his chest, a blistering, frantic rhythm.

And it was in that moment that he realized something else—that the intensity of their fight had pushed him to this point.

Kaelen had the ability to kill him right here, right now.

He could end this with a single blow, an accidental strike or a deliberate one, and Thorne would be gone.

He could die in the moonlight, the weight of Kaelen’s sword bringing his end, but something kept him here.

Kaelen lowered his sword, his posture relaxing as he balanced it against the edge of the fountain.

“Your footwork is most impressive,”

he said, his voice suddenly lighter, almost admiring.

He raised one long leg, effortlessly using it to propel himself upward and realign his balance.

He came to stand on the fountain as well, sword still in hand.

With a flick, he sent a few loose snowflakes falling off his blade before he began to stride forward again, his eyes glinting like shards of ice.

"That feint-lunge combination was particularly intriguing.

I confess, I certainly feel as if I’m bettering my sword skills simply by observing you.”

Thorne snorted derisively, shaking his head.

“What are you going on about? You sound as if you're taking notes.”

He shifted backward carefully, keeping his distance from Kaelen’s long reach.

He prodded with a hint of sarcasm, “Intend to jot this all down somewhere later so you may relive every agonizing moment of your defeat again?”

Kaelen paused, and for a moment, he seemed bemused, his lips folding together in thought.

"I! Well, you see," he began, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, "I started doing it for the children—writing down my exercises and drills so that I might show them later, and then I just sort of picked up the habit for myself—"

Thorne paused, an incredulous look crossing his face.

“Children? What children?”

Kaelen’s expression softened.

"Oh, the… I like to visit several of the orphanages here in Erethos, and I teach the children fencing while I’m there.”

He said it with a kind of sheepishness, the vulnerability in his voice surprising Thorne.

"My father, the king, was beloved by his people because he took an interest in their lives, and dedicated his rule to improving living conditions and infrastructure throughout the kingdom.

I, too, simply wish to assist where I am able, and give back to the people in the small ways I can.”

Thorne’s eyes narrowed.

His words slipped out, more venomous than he intended.

“By training innocent children to be soldiers.”

The bitterness in his tone was sharp, unintentional, but it had its effect.

Kaelen squared his shoulders, unflinching.

"The ability to protect oneself is important," he said firmly, but then his expression faltered, his eyes dropping to the ground for a brief moment.

“And I hardly think time devoted to such a skill is a waste.”

He sighed, a deep breath that seemed to carry the weight of a lifetime with it.

"Though, in a just world, there would be no need."

Thorne hated the sickening pang that twisted in his gut at the sight of Kaelen's conflicted expression.

It was an unholy mix of something raw, something human, and for a fleeting moment, Thorne felt the sharp bite of guilt claw at him.

But he wasn’t about to let it show.

Instead, his instincts flared, pushing him into action.

He kicked a patch of ice toward the prince, a sharp, focused movement that sent the frozen shards flying.

The ice hit Kaelen square in the leg, and his eyes snapped up, flashing with something dangerous.

Thorne smirked, a half-hidden grin curling beneath his blade.

"And what other chivalrous, kingly foolishness do you participate in, sire?" Thorne prodded, the words leaving his mouth almost before he thought about them.

He was good at throwing barbs, even better at hiding behind them.

"Kissing babies? Rescuing every poor stray that crosses your path?"

Kaelen’s eyebrows shot up in mock surprise, then his lips curved into a mischievous smile.

"Ah, I’m guessing you saw the cat then."

Thorne blinked, utterly confused.

"You have got to—what cat?"

Kaelen waved his hand dismissively, still grinning.

"Did you not see? When I was walking through the garden, there was that cat and I—" Kaelen trailed off, shaking his head as if realizing he was getting sidetracked.

"It doesn't matter."

Thorne’s mouth dropped open, but before he could say anything else, Kaelen lunged at him, his body a blur of motion.

Thorne’s reflexes kicked in just in time, and he darted back, their blades meeting with a sharp clash.

Kaelen’s strikes were fast and sure now, a relentless barrage that had Thorne backpedaling, struggling to keep up.

With each hit, the weight of Kaelen’s sword made Thorne’s bones hum.

He felt the power in each of Kaelen’s blows—how they rang through him, forcing his body to move faster, to anticipate, to survive.

Thorne fought back with his own strikes, countering when he could, dodging when he couldn’t, but he could feel the pressure mounting, could feel Kaelen’s hunger to close the gap, to overwhelm him.

The battle took them across the fountain, swords slicing through the cold night air like jagged lines in the sky.

Their shadows danced wildly on the ice, mimicking the aggression of their movements.

Every swing, every parry, was a challenge—a test of will, a fight for dominance.

Thorne could feel the rawness of it, the way Kaelen pressed him harder with each exchange.

The prince was relentless, and Thorne was caught in the whirlwind of his energy.

This wasn’t a spar anymore.

Kaelen wasn’t holding back.

Kaelen’s next move came swiftly.

Thorne misread a jab, reacting too late to parry.

Kaelen dropped suddenly, sliding off the rim of the fountain, his feet hitting the ground with a thud as he swiftly righted himself, the grin on his face a razor-sharp thing.

Before Thorne could adjust, Kaelen’s sword came for him, aimed directly for his stomach.

Thorne’s instincts screamed at him.

He twisted, throwing himself away from the fountain and landing in a crouch before darting away, narrowly avoiding the strike.

He scowled at Kaelen, his body aching from the near-miss, but Kaelen wasn’t finished.

Without a word, he was after Thorne again, his sword flashing through the air with dangerous precision.

Thorne barely had time to react as Kaelen swiped, jabbed, and struck relentlessly.

The force behind each blow was unyielding, and Thorne found himself back on the defensive, barely able to avoid Kaelen’s blade.

The strikes came faster now, harder, heavier.

And then, something strange happened.

Thorne found himself enjoying it.