The training arena was not built for comfort.
Cold stone. No cushions. No soft light. Just a wide circular floor marked by countless scuffs — the ghosts of training sessions past — and a balcony above, where a single figure watched with white-knuckled hands gripping the railing.
Mirel.
Ariaxa barely had time to register her before a hard object slammed into her palm.
“Grip,” Riven said.
His voice was as emotionless as carved granite. The knife Kaedan had given her lay across her hand like a contradicting truth — light and deadly.
Ariaxa curled her fingers around it, still unsure if she was allowed to hold it. Still unsure if this was a trap. Still unsure of anything.
Riven stepped back only long enough to roll his shoulders. His hair, tied at the nape, barely shifted. His eyes — pale, sharp, too quiet — didn’t leave her.
“Again,” he said.
“I didn’t even—”
He struck.
Not with the blade, but with the heel of his palm, fast and ruthless. It hit her sternum before she could inhale. She staggered back, slammed into the stone, nearly lost the knife.
A strangled sound escaped her.
On the balcony, Mirel flinched.
“Stand,” Riven said.
Her legs shook as she pushed herself upright.
“You think I can learn like this?” Ariaxa rasped. “You’re knocking me down every ten seconds.”
“That’s how you learn,” he said. “If you want Kaedan to laugh at your weakness, tell him that.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. “I don’t—”
“Again.”
She barely had time to move before he swept her legs. She hit the floor hard, stones biting her skin. The impact rattled her teeth.
Mirel gasped above.
Ariaxa clenched her jaw and forced herself up. Her knees buckled once, threatening to betray her, but she steadied.
Riven passed no praise.
No comfort.
He simply circled.
“Kaedan gave you that knife,” he said. “So you’d learn. So you’d bleed. So you’d break.”
The blade felt heavier somehow.
“I’m not trying to break,” Ariaxa whispered.
“You will.” Riven lunged.
Steel flashed. Ariaxa threw herself sideways, the blade grazing her forearm. Pain bloomed — bright, hot, swift.
A line of blood welled up immediately.
Mirel covered her mouth.
Riven didn’t even blink. “Better.”
“You cut me—”
“You’re holding a weapon,” Riven said flatly. “I’d be doing you a disservice if I pretended you weren’t.”
Ariaxa’s breath trembled. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Then you will die.” Riven advanced.
Their blades — well, his real blade and her smaller one — clashed, sparks hissing between them. He forced her backward, step after step, until her spine touched the wall again.
He didn’t let her rest.
Riven pinned her forearm, pushed against her guard, pressed the cold steel near her collarbone.
“Again,” he murmured. “Fight.”
She swung. Weakly. He deflected it like batting a leaf.
“Harder.”
She slashed. He caught her wrist, twisted. Her fingers spasmed.
“Your knife is not decoration.” He leaned close. “If you raise it, you raise it to kill.”
She breathed hard. Sweat dampened the back of her neck. Her heartbeat thudded through the collar.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered.
“You can,” he said. “Kaedan wouldn’t have given you the blade if you couldn’t.”
She stared at him. “How do you know that?”
“Because he never gifts without purpose.”
He shoved her away and motioned for her to follow.
This time she attacked first.
The blade in her trembling hand darted forward. Riven parried, swept down, hooked her ankle. She tripped, caught herself, lunged again in a messy arc.
She missed.
He didn’t.
His foot caught her stomach. She folded forward with a gasp.
Mirel took a step forward on the balcony, ready to run to her — but Riven gave her a single sharp look. A warning. This was not mercy’s place.
“Princess,” Riven said, low. “He will test you. He will push you. He will use you. And one day, he will leave you a choice.”
Ariaxa lifted her head, dizzy. “What choice?”
Riven stepped back, lowering his weapon, giving her the space to breathe.
“Fight him,” he said. “Or die by him.”
Her throat closed.
Riven circled again. “Last round. If you drop the knife, you’re done.”
She tightened her grip.
The next exchange was a blur — step, spin, slash, dodge — the arena floor echoing with the scuff of feet and the ringing clash of steel. Riven pressed, retreated, pressed again. Ariaxa’s lungs burned; her arms shook.
But her legs remembered.
Her bruises remembered.
Her fear remembered.
And somewhere in the frantic chaos, something else surfaced:
Anger.
Not at Riven.
At everything.
At Kaedan.
At Seren.
At the Crypts.
At the collar burning her throat.
At being turned into a weapon she never asked to be.
Riven lunged high.
Ariaxa dropped low.
His blade sliced air above her head.
She pivoted hard, teeth clenched, and drove the little silver knife upward — instinctive, desperate, messy —
Until cold metal kissed warm skin.
Riven froze.
Her knife pressed to his throat.
A thin line of crimson welled where the blade had grazed him. Not deep — barely a scratch — but enough.
Enough to prove she could.
Mirel’s hand flew to her mouth in shock.
Ariaxa’s breath came ragged, heavy, disbelieving. “I— I didn’t mean—”
Riven did not move. Did not speak at first.
Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to hers.
And for the first time since she’d known him, he smiled.
A small smile. A dangerous one. A knowing one.
“If you can do that to me,” he murmured, voice soft enough that only she could hear, “Princess…”
He leaned the smallest inch closer, letting the blade press more firmly against his skin, deliberately inviting the threat.
“…imagine what you could do to Kaedan.”
The words struck her harder than any blow.