Metheea stood in front of the mirror, dressed in Katarthan grays and silver, her long hair braided over one shoulder. Today was her first day at the academy, and she had spent the last week memorizing her subjects and etiquette protocols until her head ached.
Lerima stood behind her, arms crossed. "You look like a proper Katarthan lady now," she said. "Remember to act like one."
Metheea stiffened. She was a Katarthan. She was a Dythrid. She was both, and neither. She didn't belong anywhere—but she knew what Lerima meant. If she acted wrong, she'd die.
Lerima handed her the syllabus again. "Review your schedule. You'll be reporting to your instructors before second bell."
Metheea flipped it open, frowning. "Why do I have physical training lessons?"
"It was added."
"By who?"
"Prince Frakir."
Her hands clenched the paper. Prince Frakir was the crown prince of Dythrid, her half-brother. He always found ways to make her suffer. He knew she couldn't refuse this or even ask their mother.
She made her way to the southern yard, where physical training was held. It was already full. Mostly boys with a handful of girls. Some girls looking just as displeased to be there.
Metheea's stomach twisted, but if she could survive here, this might be her advantage later.
The instructor barked at everyone to form lines. She awkwardly stood behind a line of girls.
"I'm Hanlo Arsemi, your instructor," the instructor said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "This is Combat Class. You'll learn to protect yourselves. You'll learn how to fight. This is a beginner course, so easy you can finish it sleeping." He grinned, as if that was a private joke only he found funny.
"STAND TALL." He shouted making them stand straighter.
Another man walked onto the field.
He was taller than anyone else, and the moment he appeared, the energy shifted.
People whispered.
"The prince."
Metheea's chest tightened like something had clamped around her ribs. Her legs went unsteady beneath her, and for a second, she thought she might fall right there in front of everyone.
Azrayel.
Azrayel raised his hand, and everyone went quiet.
Hanlo spoke again. "You're standing before His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Azrayel of Katarthan. Descendant of the Flame Dragon. Heir to the throne."
Gasps spread across the line.
Metheea sucked in a breath. Her heart pounded in her ears as her mind tried to catch up with what she was seeing.
The prince stepped forward, calm and steady. "I'm here to welcome the future defenders of Katarthan. This kingdom will depend on you."
It was really him. Her brother.
She stiffened in her place, barely breathing. Her eyes scanned the perimeter wildly—where was Lerima? Was she hiding nearby, watching?
Help me, she wanted to scream. But her mother's voice echoed in her head.
One slip means death.
She stayed quiet.
Azrayel's eyes skimmed over the class, then stopped on her. His smirk returned, like a slow pull of silk.
Unthinking, she moved with the line, her instincts taking over as they entered the training grounds. Training dummies were set up at one side, weapons racks lined another. A sparring circle had been drawn on the stone floor. Her thoughts, however, were far from present.
Her mind spiraled in chaos. Her eyes still darted everywhere searching for Lerima.
But Metheea saw no familiar figure.
And then her gaze drifted to the gates and back to Azrayel.
Azrayel stood there in the corner, casually speaking with the instructors, a confident tilt to his posture, his smile sharp. She couldn't look at him without her stomach turning.
She clenched her fists, willing herself to hold it together.
One of the instructors noticed her lingering in the corner. "You," he barked. "Don't just stand there. Get a weapon."
She jumped, startled, and stumbled toward the weapon rack. Her fingers trembled as she picked the smallest blade she could find. The instructor sighed but didn't comment. He stepped beside her, took her arm, and showed her how to swing it once—twice—then moved on to the next student.
She stood frozen with the weapon still in her grip.
At least I have something, she thought bitterly. If he comes closer, at least I can do something.
She risked a glance at him and realized he was walking toward her.
Her body froze.
Every muscle locked. Her feet rooted to the ground as if the stone beneath had swallowed them whole.
"Have we met?" His voice was too smooth and too close.
Metheea didn't dare to lift her head.
"No," she said quickly. Her voice too high pitched even to her own ears.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him tilt his head. His steps didn't move, but somehow he still seemed closer. His gaze felt heavy, like it was peeling back skin.
"You're breaking my heart," he said but the smile on his face didn't reach his eyes.
"Sorry," she mumbled, keeping her eyes on the ground.
He didn't respond. He didn't leave either but just stood there, watching.
Long enough for the silence to stretch into something unbearable.
Finally, he turned to the instructors with a quiet laugh, like the whole thing had amused him.
Her knees nearly gave out the moment his back was turned.
She took a step back, then another, until she reached the edge of the training group. She tried to steady her breathing, watching others pair up and begin the sparring rounds. The clink of wood against wood, the stomp of boots on stone—it all blurred into noise.
"Pair up!" barked Hanlo.
Metheea blinked. A girl beside her—short, wiry, and freckled—nodded once and raised her practice sword.
Metheea lifted her dagger, unsure.
The girl didn't wait. She lunged.
Their wooden blades met. The jolt traveled up Metheea's arm, shocking her back into the moment. The freckled girl pushed forward hard, catching Metheea off balance and throwing her back a step. But Metheea's grip tightened, and as the girl came in again, she swung hard and clean, catching the girl off guard and knocking the blade from her hand.
The girl stumbled. Metheea stood there, chest heaving.
She had overpowered her.
She blinked in disbelief.
"Not bad," a familiar voice drawled behind her.
Metheea turned and there he was again.
Azrayel stood with arms folded, watching her spar with a half-lidded gaze that made her want to vanish into the stone.
"You've got decent footwork," he said, stepping closer. "But your grip's too tight. You'll tire out fast."
She said nothing, wanting to just make him march to the next student.
"Here," he said, walking around her. "May I?"
She gave a stiff nod, unable to find her voice.
His hands brushed hers, adjusting her grip on the hilt. It was innocent enough to anyone watching. But Metheea could feel every nerve screaming inside her skin.
"You don't need to strangle the blade," he murmured near her ear.
She stepped away the instant he let go, nearly stumbling.
He smiled. "Tense little thing, aren't you?"
"I prefer not to be touched," she said flatly.
He raised a brow, amused. "Noted, Miss Dythridian." He whispered the last word to her.