“Pair off!” Master Donovan’s voice cuts through the rain-soaked courtyard like a whip crack. “Blade work today—no mercy for the weak!”
The Veriton girls shuffle into formation, their practice uniforms already soaked through. I stand alone as they subtly step away from me, leaving me isolated like a plague victim.
“Afraid I’ll set them on fire too?” I mutter, gripping my practice dagger.
“You’re holding that blade like it might bite you,” Prince Henry’s voice cuts through my bitter thoughts. He steps into the space opposite me, his own weapon gleaming in the gray light.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Sparring. Unless you’d prefer to practice alone?”
The other students watch with barely concealed fascination. Helena and the Prince—what fresh drama will this produce?
“Careful, Your Highness,” I hiss, raising my blade. “I might accidentally stab you.”
His mouth curves in that infuriating smirk. “Big words from someone who flinched at Calla’s foil.”
I lunge without warning, my blade singing through the air. He sidesteps with fluid grace, our steel meeting in a shower of sparks.
“Angry today?” he observes, parrying my next strike with casual ease.
“Always when I’m forced to stare at your face.”
“How flattering.” He spins, his blade dancing in a perfect arc that I barely deflect. “Though I notice you haven’t looked away.”
Our weapons clash again, the sound echoing across the courtyard. He’s faster, more skilled, but I refuse to yield ground. Rain streams down my face, mixing with sweat and fury.
“You fight like you have something to prove,” Henry says, pressing his attack.
“Maybe I do.” I slash wildly, forcing him back a step.
“To who? Them?” He nods toward our watching audience. “Or yourself?”
Before I can answer, he drops his guard and steps close—close enough that I feel his breath against my ear.
“There she is,” he whispers, so quietly only I can hear.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I stumble backward, my weapon lowering involuntarily.
“What?”
But he’s already retreating, spinning his dagger once before rejoining the other students without another glance.
I open my training cubby and freeze.
Tucked between my gloves and a rolled-up towel is a piece of parchment—burnt around the edges, the paper brittle and warped from heat.
My stomach drops. I recognize the handwriting immediately. My handwriting.
Burned scraps from my own journal, cut and reassembled like some sick ransom note.
The message is simple. Brutal.
“Fire suits you. Try burning the weight off next time.”
My fingers go numb. For a second, I can’t breathe.
The world tilts sideways. My knees buckle, and I grab the stone wall for support. Behind me, soft laughter drifts from a cluster of girls pretending not to watch.
“Oh look,” one whispers loud enough to carry. “The fire-starter got a love letter.”
“How poetic.”
My vision blurs. The torn pages swim before my eyes—fragments of my most private thoughts, my fears, my observations about this cursed place. All of it violated, desecrated, weaponized against me.
“Breathe.”
I spin around, nearly losing my balance. Henry stands a few feet away, his expression unreadable.
“I’m fine,” I gasp, crumpling the note in my fist.
“No, you’re not.” He steps closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “You’re hyperventilating.”
“Let me guess—you wrote this?” I wave the destroyed note at him.
“If I wanted to destroy you with words, you’d know it.” His tone is matter-of-fact, almost clinical. “That’s amateur work.”
“How comforting.” I press my back against the wall, fighting for air. “Your professional assessment of my torment.”
“Helena—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “Don’t you dare pretend to care now. Not after weeks of calling me names, mocking me, treating me like some pathetic joke.”
“I never said you were pathetic.”
“You said I was a mistake!”
“I said you weren’t supposed to matter.” His jaw tightens. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” I push away from the wall, stepping toward him. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like the same cruelty but with prettier words.”
We stare at each other across the narrow space, the air crackling with unspoken accusations. The torn note lies between us like evidence of a crime.
“Why are you here?” I demand.
“Because you’re falling apart.”
“And that matters to you because…?”
His silence stretches too long. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. “I don’t know.”
The honesty in those three words hits me harder than any insult. I see something flicker in his eyes—confusion, perhaps, or recognition of something he doesn’t want to name.
“I hate this,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“I hate that you confuse me. That I can’t figure out if you’re trying to save me or destroy me.”
“Maybe both.”
The admission hangs between us like a confession. I search his face for mockery, for the cruel smile that usually accompanies his words. Instead, I find something raw and unguarded.
“Go,” I say quietly. “Just… go.”