The training yard sprawls before me, packed earth surrounded by weapon racks and practice dummies. Young riders move through drills under the watchful eye of a scarred veteran whose face looks carved from granite.

Xavier barks commands with gruff efficiency that reminds me of the instructors back home—except these students actually seem to respect him rather than fear him.

I hover at the edge, uncertain. Every trainee turns to stare as I approach. Their eyes hold the same suspicion I’ve grown accustomed to seeing everywhere in this compound.

A houseless newcomer among house-born fighters.

An outsider contaminating their ranks.

My feet nearly turn me around but then a girl with clever eyes and dark hair offers a small nod of acknowledgment. The gesture is tiny, but it anchors me in place.

“Form up!” Xavier’s voice cuts across the yard. “Basic drills first, then sparring.”

I find a spot at the back, hoping to observe before participating, when Xavier’s scarred face swings toward me immediately.

“You. Rogue. Front and center. You don’t hide in my training yard.”

Heat floods my cheeks as I move forward. The other trainees part around me like water around a stone.

We begin with forms I learned years ago in secret sessions, stealing time when Cassandra and my parents weren’t watching. My body remembers before my mind catches up.

Strike. Block. Pivot. Strike again.

Xavier prowls among us, correcting stances and calling out mistakes. When he passes me, he pauses briefly. Says nothing. Moves on.

During the water break, the dark-haired girl sidles up beside me. Her dark grey eyes assess me with open curiosity rather than hostility.

“You’re the wanderer everyone’s been whispering about,” she says. “I expected someone more… feral.”

The teasing tone catches me off guard. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I didn’t say I was disappointed.” She grins. “I’m Mira. My older brother Aaron is Lord Draven’s second-in-command, so I hear all the gossip.”

“What kind of gossip?”

“The interesting kind. Like how you challenged our lord and lived to tell about it.” Mira tilts her head. “That takes either courage or stupidity. I haven’t decided which yet.”

“Most people assume stupidity.”

“Most people are boring. I prefer to reserve judgment until I have more evidence.” She takes a long drink from her waterskin. “Where did you learn to fight like that? Your forms are textbook perfect.”

“Self-taught,” I lie smoothly.

“Liar,” she replies just as smoothly. “But that’s fine. We all have secrets worth keeping.”

I wanted to answer but Xavier’s whistle summoned us back to practice and Mira winked before returning to her position.

The afternoon progresses through increasingly complex drills. My muscles burn with familiar effort, and something loosens in my chest. This—movement, purpose, discipline—feels right in ways scrubbing floors never did.

I hold my own against the other trainees. More than hold my own, actually. The brutal conditioning from Blue Dragon serves me well here.

Surprised glances follow my movements. Whispers ripple through the ranks.

Halfway through the session, the air changes. Conversations die. Bodies stiffen.

I don’t need to turn around to know who’s arrived. The weight of his attention presses against my spine like a physical force.

Draven stands at the edge of the training grounds, arms crossed, dark eyes tracking every movement on the field, and Khaira’s massive form shadows the cliff behind him.

“Lord Draven,” Xavier acknowledges with a respectful nod. “Come to observe the trainees?”

“Among other things.”

His gaze finds mine.

It doesn’t flicker. Doesn’t rush. It settles, heavy and deliberate, like he’s chosen this moment—and me—with purpose. I feel it in my chest, a sharp, unwanted awareness that tightens my breath.

“Call for sparring partners, Xavier. I want to see what they’ve learned.”

Movement ripples across the field. Trainees shift, pair off, the familiar sounds of training filling the space again. I turn toward Mira, already stepping in her direction, grounding myself in routine.

“Not her.”

The words cut cleanly through the noise. I stop. Draven steps onto the field.

The ground might as well tilt beneath my feet. He moves with the same effortless authority he always does, presence alone enough to quiet the murmurs around us. Trainees instinctively retreat, forming a wide circle, giving him space. Giving us space.

“The rogue spars with me.”

My heart slams hard enough to hurt.

Every instinct in me sharpens at once—fight, flight, something dangerously close to anticipation. I can feel the attention of everyone watching, but it’s his awareness that weighs the most. Like I’ve been singled out. Like I’ve been chosen.

Draven studies me as I approach, gaze slow, assessing. Not dismissive. Not indulgent. Focused. It makes my skin prickle, like he’s seeing more than I’ve allowed anyone to see in a long time.

“Let’s see what you can really do,” he says quietly.

The distance between us is minimal now. Too little. I’m acutely aware of the height difference, the solid breadth of him, the way his presence crowds my space without him taking another step. My pulse betrays me, loud and insistent.

“No holding back this time.”

Something about the way he says it coils low in my stomach. Not fear. Not entirely. A challenge, sharp and intimate, threaded with something that feels dangerously personal.

Before I can settle my stance, before I can school my breathing, he moves.

Fast.

The world narrows to motion and instinct as I react, body answering before thought can interfere. And somewhere beneath the clash of training and expectation, beneath the rush of adrenaline, I’m painfully aware of one truth—

He isn’t just testing my skill.

He’s testing me.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify