The invitation came on cream paper, slipped under my door like a death warrant. Calla’s perfect script: “Midnight fencing. Practice arena. Unless you’re too frightened? - C”
Subtle as a brick through a window. But refusing meant looking weak, and I was done looking weak.
“You look surprised to see me,” Calla purrs as I enter the moonlit arena. She stands poised like a golden viper, her blade already gleaming in her hand. “I thought you might cower in your chamber instead.”
The practice arena feels different at midnight—shadows writhing across empty benches, the stone walls seeming to close in like a tomb. My heart hammers as I strap on my guard, trying to ignore how my uniform pulls across my body.
“You challenged me,” I reply, drawing my blade. “Here I am.”
“How refreshingly direct.” She circles me with predatory grace, her perfect figure moving like liquid mercury. “Though I must say, watching you fence is rather like watching a cow attempt ballet.”
My grip tightens on the hilt. “Shall we get on with it then?”
“Oh yes,” she breathes, raising her foil. “Let’s.”
She strikes like lightning—fast, precise, meant to humiliate rather than wound. I barely parry, stumbling backward as she follows with a series of elegant attacks that drive me across the arena floor.
“Too slow!” she taunts, her blade singing through the air. “Too heavy! Too graceless!”
I lunge forward desperately, but she sidesteps with balletic ease, her counter-attack slicing across my shoulder. Fire blooms through the fabric as blood seeps warm against my skin.
“First blood to me,” she announces with vicious satisfaction. “Though with your complexion, I suppose it’s hard to tell.”
“I’m not finished,” I gasp, raising my blade again despite the burning pain.
“No?” She feints left, then strikes right, opening another cut along my arm. “How about now?”
My vision blurs, but I refuse to yield. I can’t. Not here. Not in front of—
“Ah,” Calla’s voice turns silky with triumph. “Our audience has arrived.”
I follow her gaze to the arena’s entrance, where Prince Henry emerges from the shadows like some dark god of war. He says nothing, merely crosses his arms and leans against the stone archway, his expression unreadable.
“Your Highness!” Calla calls without lowering her weapon. “How fortuitous! You arrive just in time to witness your leading lady’s… performance.”
“Continue,” Henry says simply, his voice carrying across the arena like a command.
Calla’s smile turns predatory. “With pleasure.”
She attacks with renewed fury, her blade dancing through the air in perfect arcs. I try to match her pace, but my movements are clumsy, desperate. Each parry sends shockwaves up my arm, each retreat brings fresh laughter from her lips.
“Is this how you plan to perform for the nobility?” she mocks, driving me toward the arena wall. “This pathetic display of gracelessness?”
“At least I’m not performing for cruelty’s sake,” I spit back, managing a wild thrust that she deflects with contemptuous ease.
“Cruelty?” Her laugh is like breaking glass. “Oh, sweet Helena. This isn’t cruelty. This is education.”
Her blade finds my ribs, sliding through my guard like a serpent. I cry out as pain explodes across my side, my knees buckling. Blood spreads across the torn fabric of my uniform.
“There,” she says, stepping back with satisfaction. “Now you look properly defeated.”
I struggle to my feet, my vision swimming. Blood drips from multiple wounds, staining the arena floor. But I still grip my sword.
“Had enough?” Calla asks, not even breathing hard.
“Not… even… close,” I wheeze.
From the shadows, Henry’s voice cuts through the air like a blade: “Enough.”
Calla turns toward him, her eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “Your Highness? But we were just reaching the climax.”
“I said enough.” He pushes away from the wall, moving toward us with fluid grace. “Unless you intend to explain to the Headmistress why her star performer is bleeding out on the practice floor.”
“How considerate of you to worry about my welfare,” I manage through gritted teeth.
Henry’s eyes meet mine, and something flickers in their depths—something that might be respect. “I worry about the play’s success. Nothing more.”
Calla sheathes her blade with theatrical flair. “Very well. Though I do hope our little lesson has been… illuminating.”
She glides past me toward the exit, pausing only to whisper: “Next time, piglet, I won’t be so gentle.”
Her footsteps fade into the night, leaving me alone with Henry and the taste of my own blood.
“You’re hurt,” he observes, his voice carefully neutral.
“I’ll survive.” I try to sheath my sword, but my hands shake too violently. The blade clatters to the stone.
Without warning, Henry shrugs off his velvet coat and extends it toward me. The fabric is rich as midnight, embroidered with the Veriton crest in gold thread.
“Take it,” he says quietly.
I stare at the offered garment, my pride warring with the cold seeping through my torn uniform. “I don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity.”
“Then what is it?”
His jaw tightens. “Pragmatism. You’re bleeding on Academy property.”
“How romantic,” I laugh bitterly. “The fallen lady accepts charity from her noble knight.”
“This isn’t a performance, Helena.”
“Isn’t it?” I meet his gaze directly, ignoring the way my vision wavers. “Everything here is a performance. Every kindness, every cruelty, every moment we share that stage.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can see the conflict warring in his eyes. “Not everything.”
“Prove it.”
The challenge hangs between us. For a heartbeat, I think he might accept it—might show me something real beneath the princely mask.
Instead, he lets the coat fall to the ground between us.
“Pick it up or don’t,” he says, his voice cold once more. “But don’t bleed to death out of stubbornness.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me alone in the moonlit arena with his discarded coat.
***