Sylra's POV
The training yard was still dark when Caelen's boot connected with my ribs and sent me sprawling across the frost-covered stones.
"Get up." His voice carried no inflection. No anger, no encouragement. Just cold command.
I pushed myself to my hands and knees, my breath misting in the pre-dawn air. Every muscle in my body screamed for rest. We'd been at this for hours, and I'd spent more time on the ground than on my feet.
"I said get up." He circled me slowly, sword loose in his grip. "Your enemies won't wait for you to catch your breath."
I forced myself upright, gripping my practice blade with fingers that had gone numb from the cold. My arms trembled with exhaustion. My lungs burned.
Caelen moved before I was ready, his blade arcing toward my shoulder. I raised my sword to block, and he knocked it aside effortlessly, the flat of his weapon cracking against my collarbone.
I stumbled backward, gasping.
"You apologized with your body before you even swung," he said, advancing on me. "Your shoulders dropped. Your weight shifted backward. You were already preparing to lose."
"I was preparing to defend myself."
"No. You were asking permission to fight." He struck again, and I barely deflected the blow. "Stop asking. Start demanding."
Another strike. Another stumble. Another correction delivered with brutal precision.
"Your footwork is sloppy. Your grip is wrong. You telegraph every movement three seconds before you make it."
"Maybe if you actually taught me instead of just hitting me—"
His blade swept my legs out from under me. My back slammed against the stones hard enough to drive the air from my lungs.
Caelen stood over me, his gray eyes reflecting the first pale light of dawn. "Pain is the best teacher. Get up."
I got up. I got up a dozen more times as the sun crept over the palace walls and painted the training yard in shades of gold. I got up when my arms shook so badly I could barely lift my sword. I got up when blood ran from a split lip I didn't remember receiving.
And slowly, incrementally, I started to improve.
Not by much. Caelen still knocked me down more often than not. But the gaps between falls grew longer. My blocks became more solid. My counterattacks, while clumsy, at least existed.
"Better," Caelen said, circling me. "Your stance is improving. But you still flinch."
"I flinch because you keep hitting me."
"You flinch before I hit you." He stopped in front of me, head tilted. "You flinch when I raise my voice. You drop your eyes when I criticize you. And when my blade connects, you thank me for the lesson."
My jaw tightened. "I'm being polite."
"You're being conditioned." His voice had changed, lost some of its sharp edge. "Someone taught you your pain doesn't matter. Someone taught you to make yourself convenient."
The words hit harder than any of his blows. I saw Lady Vela's face in my mind, heard her voice dripping with contempt. Felt Neressa's cruelty and Rovan's indifference, the thousand small moments that had taught me to shrink, to apologize, to disappear.
Caelen's eyes held mine, and for a heartbeat, something flickered in those winter-gray depths. Understanding. Recognition. Maybe even something softer.
Then it vanished, replaced by his usual cold mask.
"Again," he commanded. "And this time, mean it."
We trained until mid-morning, until sweat soaked through my training leathers despite the chill. By the time Caelen called a halt, I could barely stand. I leaned against a stone pillar at the edge of the yard, chest heaving, every inch of my body throbbing with fresh bruises.
"Your endurance is pathetic," Caelen observed, sheathing his sword. "But your instincts are better than I expected. With enough work, you might actually survive your coronation."
I blinked, straightening slightly. "Was that almost a compliment?"
"It was an observation." He moved toward me, and something in his posture shifted. His eyes narrowed, scanning the tree line beyond the training yard. "Don't read too much into—"
He spun and tackled me to the ground.
My back hit the stones, and Caelen's body covered mine completely. A split second later, an arrow buried itself in the pillar where my head had been, the shaft still quivering from impact.
"Assassins!" Caelen roared, his voice carrying across the yard. "Eastern woods! Move!"
Guards poured from the palace gates, weapons drawn. Caelen rose to a crouch over me, his body still shielding mine from the tree line. A second arrow whistled through the air, and his hand shot up, catching the shaft inches from his face.
He caught an arrow mid-flight. The realization barely had time to register before he was hauling me to my feet, dragging me toward the cover of the palace wall.
"Stay down," he ordered, pressing me against the stone.
More arrows flew. Guards shouted and crashed into the underbrush, pursuing shadows that melted between the trees. The sounds of fighting echoed from the eastern woods, steel on steel, snarls and screams.
Caelen stayed pressed against me, his broad shoulders blocking my view of the chaos, his body a wall between me and whoever wanted me dead. His chest rose and fell against mine with each rapid breath. His heartbeat pounded hard enough that I could feel it through our armor, through skin and bone and everything between.
His face was inches from mine. Close enough to see the individual striations in his gray irises. Close enough to feel his breath warm against my cheek.
"You're a target now," he said quietly. His voice was rough, strained. "Do you understand what that means?"
"It means someone wants me dead."
"It means everyone wants you dead." His grip on my arms tightened, just for a moment. "And you are weak. Too weak to protect yourself. Too weak to see the blade coming until it's already in your heart."
"Then make me stronger."
Something shifted in his expression. That flicker again, there and gone, buried beneath duty and discipline.
The sounds of pursuit faded into the distance. A guard called out that the attackers had fled. Slowly, Caelen stepped back, creating space between us that felt colder than the morning air.
He offered his hand.
I took it, letting him pull me to my feet. His fingers were calloused, warm, and they wrapped around mine with surprising gentleness. Our grip held for a moment longer than necessary, his thumb brushing across my knuckles before he released me.
"Same time tomorrow," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "And Princess?"
"Yes?"
His gray eyes met mine. "Next time, duck faster."