Malik’s blade stops an inch from my throat.

“Dead,” he says flatly, pulling back. “Again.”

I’m breathing hard, sweat dripping down my spine despite the cool morning air. We’ve been at this for two hours, and every muscle in my body screams for mercy. But in two weeks, I face Damon in the blood trials.

Mercy will get me killed.

I reset my stance, raising my practice blade. Malik circles me like a predator, his movements fluid and controlled. He’s not holding back anymore—hasn’t been since we arrived at court.

Every session pushes me harder, faster, closer to breaking.

“Your left side is still weak,” he observes. “You’re favoring your right.”

“Because my ribs are bruised from yesterday.”

“Your brother won’t care about your bruises.” His blade flashes. I block, but barely. “He’ll exploit every weakness. Every hesitation.”

The mention of Damon makes something twist in my chest. My twin. My destined killer.

“Focus,” Malik snaps, and his next strike comes faster. I parry, but he’s already moving, his blade sweeping low. I jump back—

And slam into something solid.

Hands steady me before I fall. Familiar hands that make the twin bond hum to life.

“Terrible footwork,” Damon’s voice says behind me. “No wonder Malik keeps beating you.”

I spin around. My brother stands there in training leathers, arms crossed, watching us with those silver-flecked eyes. He’s been training in the adjacent yard—I heard the sounds of combat, felt his presence through the bond.

Apparently, he’s been watching too.

“I’m doing fine,” I say, stepping away from him. The bond thrums between us, uncomfortable and insistent.

“You’re doing adequately.” Damon moves past me toward Malik, and something shifts in the air. Two predators sizing each other up. “But adequate gets her killed.”

Malik’s expression doesn’t change, but his grip tightens on his blade. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Damon circles us both now. “Because from where I was standing, she’s telegraphing every move. Dropping her shoulder before she strikes. Shifting her weight too obviously.”

His eyes find mine. “I’ve been preparing for this fight my entire life. Do you really think your pack warrior can teach her what she needs to survive me?”

The insult is deliberate. Calculated. I watch Malik’s jaw clench.

“Malik is the best fighter I know,” I say coldly.

“Then you don’t know many fighters.” Damon stops in front of me. “Your stance is wrong. You’re distributing your weight poorly. Makes you slow on the pivot, easy to unbalance.” He glances at Malik. “Didn’t he teach you that?”

“He taught me plenty—”

“Show me.” Damon pulls a practice blade from the weapons rack, settling into a fighting stance. “Attack me. Let’s see what your guardian has taught you.”

It’s a challenge. To me. To Malik. To whatever is building between the three of us.

Malik moves to interrupt, but I’m already attacking.

My blade swings toward Damon’s ribs. He blocks effortlessly, and suddenly we’re moving—strike, parry, counterattack. He’s faster than Malik, stronger, but there’s something else.

The bond hums between us, letting me feel his intentions a split second before he moves. It’s an advantage neither of us expected.

I duck under his swing, aim for his exposed side. My blade connects—just barely, just enough.

Damon steps back, eyes widening slightly, dropping his training sword. “Not bad.”

“She’s been training every day since we arrived,” Malik’s voice cuts through the moment. He hasn’t moved, but there’s steel underneath his calm. “Getting stronger. Faster.”

“I can see that.” Damon’s gaze locks with Malik’s, and the tension thickens. “The question is whether it’s enough.”

“It will be.”

“Will it?” Damon’s attention shifts back to me. “Let me show you something.”

Before I can protest, he’s behind me, his hands adjusting my shoulders, shifting my hips. His touch is clinical, professional, but the bond flares—that connection that lets him feel everything I feel.

“Feet wider. Center of gravity lower.” He steps back. “Now strike the dummy.”

I do. The blade moves faster, cleaner, more powerful. The difference is immediate.

He walks away before I can respond, leaving me alone in the training yard with bruises forming and bonds pulling me in three different directions.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

The library calls to me—the silence, the darkness, the promise of distraction. I slip through the halls in my nightgown and robe, desperate for anything that isn’t the countdown echoing in my skull.

I’m reaching for a book when I feel it. The pull. That corrupted bond flaring to life.

Theron stands in the doorway. He looks wrecked. Dark circles. Stubble. Hands trembling before he shoves them in his pockets.

“Leave me alone,” I say quietly.

“I can’t.” His voice is rough. “Being this close to you—it’s killing me.”

“Then leave the palace. Go back to your mate.”

“She’s not my mate.” He’s suddenly closer. “You are. You were. And this bond won’t let me forget it.”

“Break it then.”

“I don’t know how!” The words explode from him. “I’ve tried everything. The Priestess, the healers—nothing works. It just keeps hurting.”

Before I can respond, his mouth crashes against mine.

It’s desperate and angry and wrong. His hands pull me closer, and I should shove him away. Should remember what he did.

Instead, I kiss him back. We’re fighting even as we kiss—his grip too tight, my nails digging into his shoulders. The bond flares, burning brighter, and I hate it. Hate how good he feels.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. “This doesn’t change anything,” I whisper.

“I know.” His forehead drops to mine. “But I can’t let you go.”

The library door opens.

“What are you do— Apologies, Princess, dear guest,” a librarian’s attitude changes in an instant, as soon as she looks over the both of us.

The spell is broken. I leave the room first, leaving Theron alone with what we were and what we’ve become.