While nobles bargained and envoys postured in the gilded Hall of Commerce, the palace training fields throbbed with a different kind of tension. Steel clashed, boots struck dust, and the scent of sweat hung heavy in the evening air.
Netser Rimim had long since completed the punishment drills set by Captain Cobar, yet his arms still trembled as though the weight of that man's commands had lodged in his bones. His body moved through the motions of training—thrust, parry, strike, recover—but his mind was elsewhere.
Her face.
Every push-up, every strike of the practice sword blurred into memory. He remembered the last night he saw her, years ago, standing on the balcony of her father's estate, the moonlight catching the silver thread in her gown.
She had spoken softly, words carried more by the night wind than by courage: "I will not be traded like cattle. Not even for a crown." And then, before dawn, she was gone.
She vanished into thin air.
