The old training room was nothing like the one Barron had pictured—no dust motes in the air, no flickering torches casting shadows on battered walls. Instead, it was pristine, almost too perfect, like a mirror reflecting an idealized version of strength and discipline.
Barron hesitated at the doorway, his senses prickling with unfamiliarity. He had expected the familiar scent of old wood, sweat, and the faint tang of leather, but instead, everything was polished, organized, almost intimidating in its sterility.
Everything was understandable, really—this was where Prince Vaelorian trained with Riven, after all. A prince wouldn't train in a dump.
He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of anticipation tighten his throat. His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, eager—yet uncertain.
He wasn't alone.
Three figures stood in the center of the training room—each one a different from the other. The first was someone Barron knew well— with an infectious enthusiasm that seemed to fill the space. The second was tall and commanding, with long blonde hair pulled back neatly, sharp golden eyes that seemed to pierce through the silence like blades. The third was the most imposing—older, broader, with a faded scar running down his face that hinted at countless battles, clad in serious training gear that matched his no-nonsense demeanor.
These figures were "Riven, his friend. Prince Vaelorian," Barron noted to himself. And beside them—"must be Sir Eryndor, the emperor's knight."
Barron was brought out of his thoughts when Vaelorian's piercing gaze locked onto him, making his heart skip a beat. The room seemed to tense around him.
Riven, always the enthusiast, waved excitedly.
"Barron! You made it!"
The tension in Barron's chest eased, relief washing over him like a warm tide. Riven was here—that meant he was safe, that he was with his friend. His anxiety, which had been knotting him tighter with every passing second, loosened just a little.
He straightened, trying to steady himself.
"Good day, Your Highness...I mean, Vaelorian. And Sir Eryndor. Thank you again for agreeing to train me." He bowed respectfully, feeling the weight of his aspirations settle on his shoulders.
Vaelorian responded with a slight nod, his expression calm and encouraging. And Sir Eryndor, ever the epitome of knightly decorum, stepped forward, his presence commanding.
"Barron," Eryndor greeted, his voice neutral—yet somehow, it carried the weight of expectation. "Riven gave us his word that you're going to take this training seriously. Now, tell me—do you think you have the potential?"
Barron's pulse surged. "Potential—?"
Before he could say something else, Vaelorian took a deliberate step forward, his boots clicking against the polished floor. His voice, smooth and measured, cut through the air.
"What he means is," he drawled, "do you think you can handle our training?"
Barron lifted his chin, refusing to cower. This was too important. More than anything, he wanted to prove himself.
"I promise to give it my all." He vowed.
Vaelorian's lips curled into a subtle smile. "I think Riven was right—the boy does have the determination. We'll train him."
Barron's eyes widened with pride and a flicker of hope.
"Thank you! I won't disappoint you!"
Vaelorian's smile grew slightly, a hint of approval. "Oh, I'll be the judge of that. Good luck." With that, he stepped back.
Riven immediately jumped onto his friend, wrapping him in a triumphant hug.
"Congratulations, Barron! I'm looking forward to our training together."
"Thank you, Riv. Me too!" Barron replied cheerfully, feeling a warmth that had little to do with the training room's cool atmosphere.
Yesterday, they celebrated this news by hugging—today, they're hugging again, in that simple, genuine way only friends share. But as Vaelorian watched, a furrow formed between his brows. Something about them touching didn't sit right with him.
As if sensing his mood, Riven immediately went to him, concern flickering in his eyes.
"What's wrong, Your Highness?" he asked softly, almost in a whisper.
Vaelorian hesitated, then decided to voice what was on his mind.
"You two are really close." he said quietly.
Riven glanced briefly at Barron, then back at the older boy before nodding.
"He's my friend, so of course we're close."
Eryndor, standing silently, kept looking at them, his expression unreadable.
Vaelorian's jaw tightened. "Eryndor is my friend, too. But you don't see us hugging."
Riven took a moment to think about it then eyes suddenly widened in surprise.
"Wait—are you… jealous?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Vaelorian's eyes widened too, caught off guard by the younger boy's bluntness.
"I beg your pardon?" Vaelorian asked, his voice rising slightly, causing the others to turn and look at them with curiosity.
Riven, feeling brave for some reason, leaned in, lowering his voice to a dark purr, his touch warm and possessive as he pulled Vaelorian down to his eye level.
"You heard me." His fingers brushed Vaelorian's jaw, a subtle claim that sent a ripple through the prince's entire body. "You think I don't see it? The way you watch me with him? That's jealousy, Your Highness."
Vaelorian's breath hitched. His golden eyes dilated, and his chest rose and fell rapidly—caught between surprise and something else. Riven's lips curled into a slow, knowing grin.
"You have nothing to be jealous of, babe." he whispered loudly enough for both of them to hear. "I only have eyes for you."
Babe! The word echoed in Vaelorian's mind—Riven just called him babe. The change in Vaelorian was instant—his anger dissolving into something raw, something hungry. His hand snapped up, gripping Riven's wrist, his thumb tracing the pulse point there.
Barron stared at them, his face burning with embarrassment and confusion, unsure whether to look away or stay and watch.
What are they doing?
Eryndor cleared his throat, breaking the spell of around them.
"Perhaps we should begin the training."
Vaelorian, regaining his composure, nodded quietly. "Of course. Riven will show Barron what he's up against first."
Sir Eryndor watched them with an amused expression as he thought about all the years he's been with the young prince. He never showed romantic interest in anyone and now he can't seem to keep his hands off lord Riven.
"Wait—was that what I think it was?" Barron blurted out, eyes wide with curiosity, as Riven moved back to his side.
"Yes, Barron," Riven replied, a hint of mischief in his voice. "We're together. I'm not ready to tell everyone yet, so let's leave it at that, okay?"
"Alright, I understand. But—wow! I didn't see that coming. All this time, we were teasing you—"
"Barron?" Riven cut him off sharply.
"Yeah?"
"Shut up," Riven snapped, eyes narrowing.
"Got it!" Barron responded, making a quick zipping gesture across his lips, feeling a mix of surprise and admiration about how bold Riven is being about everything.
But then, Sir Eryndor's voice cut through the moment, a wicked grin on his face.
"Barron, I hope your pain threshold is high?"
"What does that mean?" Barron asked, confusion flickering across his face.
Eryndor chuckled softly. "It means you're about to have your ass kicked by your friend—big time."
Barron turned just in time to see Riven's wicked grin as he assumed a fighting stance, ready to test his skills. Barron gulped, his stomach tightening—this was going to be quite the training day.