The training grounds lay silent in dusk's embrace, the air crisp with the scent of pine and iron. Rodrick Tristan leaned against the well, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the frost-stitched earth. His breath fogged the twilight as he stared at the gouges Kairus's boots had left in the dirt—twin furrows that spoke of speed no mortal should possess.
'He moved like a damn ghost.'
Rodrick flexed his swollen knee, wincing. Even now, hours after the spar, the joint throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He'd fought duelists from the emerald isles, desert wraiths who danced on dagger points, and the Empire's own blade prodigies. None had left him breathless. None but two.
Lady Emily Tristan, age fourteen, her practice sword a silver blur as she disarmed six Tristan knights in succession. Duke Tristan's voice, brimming with pride: "A Sword Saint in the making."
But where Emily's speed had been grace—a heron skimming water—Kairus's was a falcon's strike. Brutal. Unrelenting.
Rodrick spat into the dirt. 'Kid fights like he's racing death itself.'
"You're brooding."
Duke Tristan emerged from the gathering dark, his ermine cloak pooling around him like liquid shadow. The scent of spiced wine clung to him, mingling uneasily with the cold.
Rodrick grunted. "Just tallying the cost of new practice swords."
The duke raised an eyebrow. "The boy?"
"He's not a boy." The words left Rodrick's lips before he could stop them. "Not in the ways that matter."
A pause. Somewhere in the pines, an owl called.
Duke Tristan leaned on the well, his rings clicking against stone. "Emily was impressed."
Rodrick snorted. "She watched?"
"From the east tower. Said his footwork was… instructive."
The gladiator barked a laugh. "That's her way of saying she's surprised."
"Naturally." The duke's smile faded. "Could he rival her?"
Rodrick stared at the bloodstain where Kairus had fallen—a rust-colored smudge on the stones. "In raw speed? Maybe. But Emily's got discipline. Control. This one…" He gestured vaguely. "He's all desperation and teeth."
The duke traced the Tristan crest on his signet ring. "Desperate men make dangerous allies."
"Or deadly enemies."
A gust of wind swept through the yard, carrying the distant clang of the smithy's hammer. Rodrick's hand drifted to the token he'd given Kairus—a twin to the one he'd offered Emily years ago.
"You think he'll use it?" the duke asked.
"No." Rodrick's thumb brushed the token's embossed bear. "But he'll keep it. Men like him hoard options like arrows."
The duke pushed off the well. "Double the watch on the Vascos. If the boy truly rivals Emily, they'll come for him."
Rodrick hesitated. "And if they do?"
Moonlight caught the edge of the duke's smile. "Why, we protect our investments."
Emily Tristan perched on the velvet seat, her nose buried in a battle treatise. At sixteen, she bore her father's sharp cheekbones and her mother's piercing green eyes—a lethal combination.
"Well?" she said without looking up.
Rodrick massaged his aching knee. "Well what?"
"The Varkaine guy. Could he keep pace?"
The carriage hit a rut, jostling lanterns. Shadows danced across Emily's face as she finally met his gaze.
Rodrick chose his words carefully. "In a straight sprint? You'd edge him. But in a fight…"
"Yes?"
"He'd gut you before you finished your first flourish."
Emily's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but calculation. "Show me."
Rodrick sighed. He'd seen that look before. It usually ended in someone bleeding.
"Next time," he lied. "Rest now."
As the carriage rolled into the night, Emily returned to her book. But Rodrick caught the faintest crease in her brow, the white-knuckled grip on her pen.
Somewhere to the west, Kairus Varkaine trained beneath a star-strewn sky, unaware of the storm he'd stirred.
Rodrick smiled.