The air behind the Hunter mansion smelled of steel and rain.
The training grounds stretched behind the house like a quiet dawn space, half-shadowed, half-light. The mist hadn't burned away yet, and the earth still held the chill of the night.
Daniel crossed the yard slowly, his boots damp from dew. He hadn't planned to come here—it was habit, muscle memory. He'd grown up hearing the sound of blades clashing in this very field. But that morning, only one sound filled the space—the sharp, steady rhythm of Cade's sword cutting through air.
Cade moved alone, the scar at his throat red against his skin. Every swing seemed to pull at it, but he didn't stop. The wound had closed, but the strain still showed.
"Should you be doing that?" Daniel called.
Cade didn't look back. "Should you be watching?"
Daniel stopped near the fence. "You'll tear it open again."
"It's my throat, not my arm," Cade rasped. "I can still fight."
"You can barely breathe," Daniel said, stepping closer.
Cade swung again, then rested the blade against his shoulder, breathing hard. "Father expects me back at drills before the week's end. I'll be there. I won't give him reason to think I'm weak."
Daniel's expression softened. "He nearly lost you."
"Almost doesn't count," Cade muttered, lowering the sword.
For a long moment, only the wind moved—soft and cold, brushing the edge of the field.
Cade sat down on the low stone wall, rubbing the bandage around his throat. "When she touched me," he said quietly, "I thought I was gone. But then...I heard her voice. Like she'd known me long before any of this." He turned to Daniel. "You were there. What did you see?"
Daniel hesitated. "I saw her save you."
"That's not what I asked."
"I don't know," Daniel said after a pause. "Just that she didn't look afraid."
Cade gave a dry laugh that made his throat ache. "Then she's a fool."
Daniel smiled faintly. "Or brave."
Cade looked away. "Maybe there's no difference anymore."
They fell silent again until a quiet voice broke through.
"You two always train with your tongues?"
Aric stood a few paces away, hair messy, a slim book under his arm. He looked half-asleep, barefoot on the wet grass, and yet—somehow—aware of everything.
Cade groaned. "Don't you ever stay inside?"
"Not when there's free entertainment," Aric said. "Besides, you sound like ghosts fighting over who gets to haunt the house first."
Daniel laughed under his breath. "You should write that down."
Aric tilted his head. "Already did."
Cade rolled his eyes but didn't argue. He wiped the sweat from his brow. "You really think you're wiser than both of us, don't you?"
"I think wisdom's what's left when pride runs out," Aric said softly. Then, after a moment: "You shouldn't push yourself. You're not healed."
Cade's jaw tensed. "I'm fine."
"No," Aric said, stepping closer. "You're angry. That's not the same thing."
The air went still—charged but quiet. Daniel looked from one brother to the other. It was Aric, gentle and shy as he was, who finally broke the silence.
"Be careful with her," he said. "The girl. Whatever she is—she's changed the air in this house."
Cade frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Aric only smiled faintly, glancing toward the horizon. "You'll see soon enough."
Then he walked away, light-footed, leaving his brothers staring after him.
From her chamber window above, **Elara** had been watching the entire time. Her reflection in the glass was motionless, but her eyes followed Cade's every move below. When he finally left the yard, she let out a slow breath, like someone who'd been waiting too long for confirmation of a suspicion.
"Proud fool," she murmured.
Behind her, two maids stood in silence. The fire crackled low, throwing soft orange light across the room.
"Has the girl eaten?" Elara asked without turning.
"Yes, my lady," one answered quickly. "She's been moved to the east chamber—Lord Daniel's order."
Elara's hand, resting on the windowsill, tightened just slightly. "Daniel's order?"
"Yes, my lady."
A small pause. Then Elara smiled—the kind of smile that never reached her eyes.
"Fetch Lysa," she said.
The younger maid shifted nervously. "Lysa, my lady? The one who tends to the girl?"
"Yes. That one."
Moments later, Lysa appeared at the doorway, hands clasped, eyes lowered. "My lady."
Elara studied her through the mirror. "You've spent more time with her than anyone. What do you think?"
Lysa hesitated. "She's quiet. Kind, maybe. But strange. When she looks at you, it's like she sees something… behind you."
Elara turned slowly, crossing the room until she stood close enough for the maid to smell the faint trace of perfume on her sleeve. "Behind me?"
"Yes, my lady," Lysa whispered. "Like she knows something that hasn't happened yet."
Elara smiled, soft and cold. "And does that frighten you?"
Lysa nodded.
"Good," Elara said, stepping back. "Fear keeps you loyal."
She turned again to the window. "You'll continue to tend to her. Listen. If she speaks of my husband, or my brothers-in-law, you come to me first. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Go, then."
When the door closed, Elara's smile faded. She moved to her desk, taking up a pen and a small square of parchment. Her handwriting was neat, controlled, deliberate.
*Father,The cracks in this house are widening.We should speak soon.*
She tied the letter to a raven's leg, opened the window, and watched it vanish into the darkening sky. The evening wind tugged at her hair as she whispered, "Let them train. I'll be the one who wins the war."
Far from the mansion, in a high chamber lit by oil lamps and lined with maps, **Lord Mereth Vale** stood beside a long table. The faint sound of quills scratching and papers shifting filled the air. His councillors stood at a careful distance.
"The Hunters' house grows restless," one said. "There are stories now. Of the girl. Of what she did."
Mereth didn't look up from the document in his hand. "Stories are cheap."
"But they spread, my lord," another offered. "The council asks if she's to be feared."
Mereth finally looked up—his gaze sharp enough to still the room. "Fear her? No. But use her? Perhaps."
He set the papers down, pouring himself a drink. "People like that girl—misunderstood, desperate—make the world turn faster. Let the Hunters discover that too late."
A servant entered then, bowing low. "My lord, a message. From Lady Elara."
Mereth took the parchment, broke the seal, and read. The faintest smile touched his lips—cold, unreadable.
"She smells blood," he said softly. "Smart girl."
He turned to the councillors. "Prepare my horse. If my daughter wants to see me, I shouldn't keep her waiting."