Metheea kept her head down. Her arms ached from yesterday's hundred swings, and today, she only wanted to disappear. But fate had other plans.
Instructor Hanlo called out again to continue their swing practice, making the students groan. She was sure they were trying to kill them.
Before she could start, she heard footsteps approaching. Azrayel.
He walked straight toward her again.
Murmurs rose as the prince crossed the training ground. She stared at the dirt, heat prickling her neck.
Instructor Hanlo looked over them. "Pair up," he ordered. "His Highness will be joining us today."
She could feel the heat of everyone's gaze on her back. A few gasps. Shuffling steps. She flinched, wanting to disappear but drawing suspicion was not what she needed.
"You. Join me for dinner tonight."
Every head turned as silence fell like a blade. Azrayel stood infront of her.
She froze but as a Katarthan noble, she had no choice in the matter.
Azrayel smirked. "You don't want to?"
Whispers swelled. She faked a smile and curtsied. "How can I ever do that to the flame of our kingdom? I am honored, Your Royal Highness."
He chuckled before walking out, leaving her fuming.
After class, she steeled herself for the abuse she might receive from Azrayel's admirers.
But to her confusion, Resme and her little court didn't say a word. They kept gazing at her while whispering, but no one said anything.
"Is it true the prince invited you to dinner?" Kalistra whispered as they sat. "If I'd known he'd be at physical training, I'd have joined too. You're so lucky."
She didn't feel lucky. ""If I'd known, I wouldn't have shown up."
Kalistra glanced around. "Careful now, they're already watching you."
"I don't care."
"You should. You're the first woman he's given an ounce of attention to. You have no idea what people are saying about you two."
"I don't want to know."
They continued their embroidery. Metheea had long since mastered it because of years of confinement left her with few pastimes. The class was more of a quiet escape. She and Kalistra stepped out briefly for a walk during the break.
When they returned, her embroidery was torn.
The fabric had been sliced clean through the middle. Threads hung limp, ruined, and one side of the cloth was soaked in inky blotches.
She stared for a long time, lips pressed into a thin line.
Instructor Verentia passed by, glanced once, then said without pause, "It happens. Replace it and catch up."
She didn't reply. Her pulse roared in her ears. They both knew who did it. But the teacher wouldn't risk the wrath of a count's daughter for someone like her.
She decided to let it go. It's just another petty trick. She reached for another string, opened her bag and stopped.
There, at the bottom, was a gold envelope she hadn't placed there.
I know your secrets. Meet me tonight at the rose garden and bring me 100 gold coins if you want me to keep it a secret.
Her throat went dry.
She couldn't move. Her fingers trembled around the envelope as a cold shiver ran down her spine. She read the note again. The words remained.
Her identity. Someone knew.
Her first instinct was to destroy the letter. But what if they sent another? What if they had proof?
She could be dead by morning.
Is it Resme? One of her lackeys? Kalistra? Or… Azrayel himself?
The idea rooted itself in her mind. He'd been watching her, drawing her out. Declaring interest. Was it a trap?
Did he know?
She ran out of the room despite the instructor calling after her. Her heart thundered in her ears.
She couldn't go to Lerima. If the Queen found out someone knew the truth, what would she do? Metheea's freedom was so close.
If Azrayel knew who she truly was, she wouldn't still be breathing. But what if he only suspected?
She had to know.
She turned down the hall, heading straight for the training building where Azrayel is currently housed in.
The guards stepped forward.
"State your visit," one said.
She drew herself tall. "My name is Velisa Alwyn. I am here by invitation of His Royal Highness, Prince Azrayel."
They exchanged a look. One disappeared behind the gates. Minutes passed. Then the doors creaked open and a young man emerged, barely older than her.
"I am Agustus Hangre," he said with a bow. "His Highness's secretary. He is finishing documents at the moment but has arranged a place for you. Please follow me."
He led her through stone corridors to a quiet veranda that overlooked the school grounds. Maids brought tea and pastries, setting them with quiet precision.
She folded her hands. Waited. Minutes stretched. Her throat tightened.
She barely touched anything. Each second wound the dread tighter.
What if he did send the letter?
What if this was the moment everything unraveled?
Footsteps.
"I hope you didn't wait too long," Azrayel's voice came.
She didn't answer. She reached into her sleeve and placed the letter on the table.
"I won't be threatened like this," she said coldly. "We had a deal."
He picked it up. His smile vanished.
"This isn't mine."
She blinked. "What?"
He didn't answer immediately. Then his voice dropped low.
"No one touches what I take interest in."
He reached forward, lifted her chin.
"Do you want me to kill them?"
She stared at him.
"What?"
"Just say the word."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her heart thudded once, twice—then dropped.
She didn't know what scared her more.
The threat.
Or the promise in his voice.