The morning frost clung to the stones like a quiet warning.
Elena hadn't meant to wander this far. After another sleepless night, she'd slipped out before sunrise, needing space. The halls of the East Wing had felt stifling — like a cage draped in velvet. So she walked, letting instinct guide her, until she came upon an iron-bound door cracked slightly open.
Beyond it: a courtyard.
Long and rectangular, lined with crumbling columns and worn-down dummies, the training grounds were silent. No guards. No soldiers. Just the wind, the faint scent of cold iron, and the brittle crunch of earth underfoot.
Elena stepped forward slowly.
This place had seen blood once. That much she could feel. Not fresh, but old — like a memory buried beneath stone. Her fingers drifted to the hilt of the sword she'd begun carrying again. Adrien's sword. She still didn't know why Lucien had allowed her to keep it, but he hadn't taken it back.
And now, it called to her.
She drew it slowly. The metal whispered as it slid free.
The sword felt heavy in her grip, but not unwieldy. Familiar. Her fingers adjusted automatically, falling into a grip she hadn't used since the day she died.
No. She had promised herself never to think like that again.
That woman is gone. I'm not her anymore.
But the sword remembered.
She stepped into the center of the yard, exhaled slowly, and moved.
The first arc was clumsy. Her stance too soft, her footwork unsteady. But she adjusted, shifted her weight, corrected. Her breathing deepened. Her shoulders lowered.
And her body began to remember.
Strike. Step. Guard. Twist. Slash.
Again.
She lost herself in it. In the rhythm. In the silence between each swing. The air parted around the blade, and the frost beneath her boots scattered like dust.
She wasn't fast. Not yet.
But she was precise.
She stepped into a finishing stance—blade leveled, breath held—when a soft sound broke her focus.
Clapping.
Elena turned sharply, blade still in hand.
A woman leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, half-hidden by shadows.
"Not bad," said Cassandra, Lucien's sister. "A little stiff. But I've seen worse."
Elena's guard didn't drop. "Were you watching long?"
"Long enough," Cassandra said, stepping into the light. "You swing like someone who's been trained. But your style… it's not courtly. Not noble. It's rough."
"I learned out of necessity," Elena said evenly.
"Where?"
Elena wiped the blade clean on her sleeve and sheathed it. "Somewhere far from here."
Cassandra's gaze narrowed slightly. "That sword you carry… it belonged to Adrien. One of Lucien's knights. Did you know that?"
"I was told."
"And you thought it appropriate to use it?"
"It's better than letting it rust," Elena said, voice calm.
A silence stretched between them.
Then Cassandra's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "You've got fire. That's rare here."
"I'm not looking to impress anyone."
"Good. Don't. Lucien doesn't care for flattery, and he cares even less for secrets." She took a few more steps forward, studying Elena. "You didn't grow up with a sword in your hand. But you've bled with one."
Elena said nothing.
Cassandra tilted her head. "He doesn't know, does he?"
"Who?"
"My brother."
"I don't see why he needs to."
The air between them shifted. Cassandra didn't speak again. She only gave Elena a long, unreadable look, then turned and walked away.
Elena was alone again.
Almost.
From the upper balcony of the north tower, hidden behind stone and shadow, a figure watched the courtyard below.
Lucien had seen enough.