The polished hallways echoed with the swift rhythm of her boots as she moved with purpose, weaving past courtiers and servants. Sunlight streamed through arched windows, catching the trail of her overskirt as it danced with each stride. Beneath it, fitted trousers offered freedom of movement—an unusual choice for a soon-to-be lady of the court.
Her hair was tied back in a high ponytail.
Just as she turned a corner, her shoulder collided into someone.
She stumbled slightly, hand instinctively moving to the small dagger she always carried—then froze.
The King.
He stood tall, flanked by several ministers, all of whom fell silent at the sudden encounter.
Her breath caught as their eyes locked. His gaze swept over her—taking in the trousers, the trailing overskirt, the poised tension in her stance. Something flickered in his expression, unreadable.
"Your Majesty," she said, bowing slightly.
"You're in a hurry," he observed, eyes never leaving her.
"I was heading to the courtyard," she replied. "The guards are beginning a new round of training today."
Maltherion's jaw tightened. "To observe, I hope."
She straightened. "Actually—"
"No," he interrupted. "You won't be joining them today."
She blinked. "But I—"
"Not this time," he said, his voice firm and loud enough for the ministers to hear, though his tone was directed solely at her. "The courtyard will be crowded. You don't need to be in the middle of a swordplay."
Her brow lifted. "I can handle myself."
"I don't doubt that. You were one of the best trainees in the female recruit back then. But that was a long time ago." His gaze softened slightly. "I won't have you injured—not when it can be avoided."
For a moment, the hallway stood still, tension crackling in the air.
Then she dipped her head, her voice calm. "As you say, Your Majesty."
But the fire in her eyes hadn't dimmed. Not one bit.
And Maltherion, as he walked past her with his ministers, knew very well she wasn't going to listen.
---
The clang of steel echoed across the courtyard as Xandria moved effortlessly through the sparring session. Her stance was confident, precise—and a little showy. Just enough to draw attention.
From the upper steps, Maltherion entered with his ministers. His gaze narrowed the moment he spotted her among the trainees.
He descended swiftly, his deep voice slicing through the courtyard like a blade. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"
She didn't stop. She blocked a strike, spun, and finally turned toward him, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Practicing, Your Majesty. Or is that forbidden now?"
One of the ministers coughed discreetly. Another shifted, clearly uncomfortable.
Maltherion strode closer, arms crossed tightly over his chest. "You weren't supposed to be part of the session. You were told to observe."
"I did observe," she said innocently. "Then I saw a few sloppy footings and thought, 'Why not help?' I'm being patriotic."
The guards chuckled under their breath—only to be silenced by the King's sharp glance.
"This isn't a game," he said, his voice low but unyielding. "You shouldn't be out here. It's not your place."
She raised her brow. "Not my place? I can hold my ground better than half the men in this field."
"That's not the point," he snapped, voice rising slightly. "What if someone injures you?"
She stepped closer, eyes locked with his. "Then I'll get back up, Your Majesty. I don't need coddling."
His jaw tensed, caught between frustration—and something else.
"Stubborn," he muttered.
"Observant," she shot back.
The ministers watched the exchange like spectators in a duel, caught somewhere between scandalized and fascinated.
"You're not going to listen to me, are you?" the King asked, sounding almost defeated.
"Not if you're wrong," she replied, turning back to the session with a wink over her shoulder. "Which you are this time."
The King sighed, watching her take up position again—fire in her eyes, a blade in her hand, and the Grand Gias thrumming through his chest like it knew something he didn't dare admit yet.
As she dove back into the sparring session, he remained still, his eyes fixed on her movements, a storm building behind them. The ministers hesitated nearby, exchanging uncertain glances.
Finally, Minister Cael—the eldest—cleared his throat. "A spirited young woman, sire."
The King didn't reply.
Another younger minister leaned in. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, she does seem... willful. Perhaps too much so."
"She's skilled," Cael said thoughtfully. "But I understand your concerns. It's not just her safety. If word spreads that she defies royal instruction so openly..."
"She didn't defy the crown," the King interrupted, still watching her. "She defied me. There is a difference."
The ministers fell silent.
Then Cael, ever brave, ventured, "You could forbid her outright."
"I could," the King said quietly. "But she would still do exactly as she pleased."
A pause.
"And truthfully?" He exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders. "I don't want to forbid her."
The ministers exchanged wide-eyed glances as the King turned away, motioning them back toward the palace. But his gaze lingered on her one last time before he finally followed.
---
Later that evening…
The courtyard was quiet now, bathed in silver moonlight. Xandria sat alone on a bench near the sparring ring, toweling sweat from her brow. Her ponytail had loosened, strands of hair clinging to her flushed face.
She heard him before she saw him. Those familiar footsteps. She didn't turn.
"You're still upset?" he asked, his voice softer now, stripped of the authority it carried before.
"No," she replied. "You're just frustrating."
Maltherion chuckled. "You defy me in front of half the court, and I'm the frustrating one?"
"You wanted me to stand and watch like a painted doll," she finally looked up. "You know I can't."
He sat beside her without asking, close—but not quite touching. The silence between them stretched, filled with the cries of distant crickets and the beating wings of night birds.
"You scared me," he admitted, the words low, raw.
She blinked. "How?"
"Because every time you fight, every time you risk yourself, I feel the Gias tighten. I feel it pulling me toward you—and I can't protect you from what it means."
Her eyes softened. "You're not supposed to protect me from who I am."
He looked at her then—really looked. "I'm not sure I can protect myself from who you are either."
Their eyes locked, and the air between them thickened—tense, uncertain, electric. No crown. No title. No audience.
Just the two of them, tangled in something ancient and unavoidable.