The next morning, preparations for the hunting tournament began in earnest. The capital's streets were alive with chatter, but inside the palace, the air was heavy and silent. No one dared to speak of the current tensions — the walls themselves seemed to be listening. Guards stood sharper than ever, their eyes always moving.
Aria's training had been arranged away from the main palace grounds, following the exacting regimen of the South Duchy's elite hunters. When she stepped onto the field, the Red Knights straightened and bowed in unison, their crimson armor glinting in the pale sun.
Sir Tristan was among them. "Sir Tristan!" Aria crossed the distance in quick strides, her usual composure giving way to a rare smile.
He clasped her forearm in a warrior's greeting. "Lady Aria. I hear the tournament intends to test more than just a steady aim."
"Good," she replied evenly. "It's been too long since I've had a real challenge."
"Then let's not waste daylight."
The dawn began with a ten-kilometer run across uneven forest ground, weighted packs on their backs. From there, they moved into the dense woods for the Silent Step Drill. Tristan didn't explain it; he didn't need to. Aria knew the rules — the faintest sound meant failure. She completed the course without a single restart, earning a brief nod from him before they moved on.
Tracking exercises followed, but this time Tristan had laid false trails, scattering misleading signs to test her judgment. Aria crouched beside faint hoofprints, running gloved fingers over them before veering away from the decoy path without hesitation.
By midday, they moved into the shadowing exercise. She trailed Tristan through the forest, but he moved like smoke, vanishing between trees. It took every ounce of her focus to keep him in sight — and once, she even managed to reverse the hunt, circling ahead to intercept him.
The wind shifted, and she adjusted her position automatically, masking her scent with crushed leaves. Tristan said nothing, but his faint smile betrayed approval.
When the bow was placed in her hands, there were no corrections — only distance. The targets were set twice as far as usual, and some were rigged to swing unpredictably. Her first arrow found its mark. The second split the shaft of the first.
By the time they ended with light sparring, sweat dampened her collar, but her movements were fluid, calculated. The survival exercise — setting snares, building a fire with flint, finding edible roots — was a familiar rhythm, muscle memory guiding her hands.
When the Red Knights challenged her to a camouflage contest, she vanished into the underbrush. An hour later, she emerged behind the last searching knight, tapping his shoulder. Tristan's smirk was all the praise she needed.
When training ended that day, Aria lingered in the yard with Tristan. The fading light caught the edge of his armor, and for a moment, it almost felt like they were back in the South—before the weight of the capital and the crown's shadow pressed in.
"Your mother would be proud," Tristan said quietly, his voice warm but touched with that faint roughness he got when speaking of the past.
Aria gave a short, tired laugh. "I don't know, Tris. Before we could sort everything out…it ended up like this."
"Don't worry, my lady," he said, his tone steady as a shield. "Your parents have faced worse storms than this."
She nodded, offering him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
A soft breeze curled around her, carrying with it the scent she had been aching for—one she knew better than her own heartbeat. The air shifted, and with it came the presence she had begged for in the silence of her nights.
"Why didn't you come to me?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
"I never left you," came the answer—low, familiar, and filled with the weight of oceans.
She turned sharply, meeting Icarus's gaze. "True," she said, her lips tightening. "But I couldn't feel you—not the way I needed. And since when do you hide things from me?"
His eyes softened, yet something unreadable lingered in them. "Forgive me, my love. This…is something that has to happen. I can't risk playing with fate."
Her brows knit. "So this isn't the end?"
He didn't answer with words—only silence, and that was enough.
Icarus reached out, cupping her cheeks in his hands. "Trust me. Whatever happens…be strong." His thumb brushed away the tear that had escaped her eye.
Looking at him now, she could see everything—the tension in his jaw, the sleepless nights etched in the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the exhaustion he tried to hide from the world.
She leaned in and kissed him. Just a soft, fleeting kiss.
"Whatever happens, come back to me," she whispered, her forehead resting against his.
"I will," he murmured. "You are my home."