Soft moonlight filtered through the tall, arched windows of the training hall, painting the marble floor in shifting silver patterns. Torches along the dark oak walls cast a warm, dancing glow that clashed beautifully with the chill night air slipping in from the stone archways. The room was cavernous and luxurious – a gothic cathedral of combat, with carved griffins staring down from the balconies and marble pillars rising like silent sentinels. Late evening shadows tangled with torchlight, emphasizing the contours of worn tapestries depicting ancient battles and royal hunts. In the center of this opulent arena stood Zhera and Xavriel, faces lit with both challenge and something far more electric.
Zhera drew a slow breath, feeling her lungs expand with the quiet calm before the storm. After last week's defeat, her paws—swift and sure in humanoid form—felt steady on the marble. She flexed her fingers, low, feline claws sheathed within her nails, and allowed herself a sly smile. The embarrassment of falling so easily to the vampire prince had hardened into determination. Tonight, she had studied his movements, her strategy sharpened like the blades strapped to her thighs. Moonlight glinted off her raven-black hair, braided tightly down her back, and she caught the subtle glimmer of her golden-brown eyes under flickering torchlight. The caracal blood in her veins tingled with anticipation. Here in this hall, among the ghosts of royal legends, she would prove herself.
Xavriel stood opposite her, the epitome of dark calm. His sleeveless midnight-blue tunic clung to powerful shoulders, and his eyes – silver like quicksilver – observed her steadily. He didn't flinch or offer reassurance as she stepped forward to meet him; his unreadable expression was as smooth and cool as polished obsidian. Though he remained an enigma, something about the way his muscles relaxed and his breathing stayed even intrigued Zhera. Even after knowing him for sometime, she still found it impossible to predict what he was thinking. A faint curve of his lips suggested he was taking pleasure in this challenge – perhaps proud that the shy caracal princess had returned for a second round.
Zhera stiffened her shoulders, channeling the twitch of her wildcat nature into latent energy. With a slight nod, she launched herself sideways in a wide arc, blade in hand, aiming a sweep low to catch Xavriel off guard. He slid back almost lazily, spark flying as metal met metal, and she seized on that brief moment of alarm in his eyes. She darted like lightning, feet barely touching the floor, and spun back for a quick thrust – but he blocked smoothly. Instead of anger, his eyes flashed a flicker of admiration. The flicker vanished, replaced with impassivity once more as he tilted his head.
"Better prepared than last time," Xavriel observed softly, blocking her strike with one hand on his sapphire-bladed sword and the other on his hip. His voice was velvet, but in it lay something dangerous and amused.
A faint flush of satisfaction warmed Zhera's cheeks. "Improved, maybe," she panted, darting into a defensive stance. Every muscle in her body coiled, tail flicking with feline impatience. She caught the scent of him – sandalwood and something faintly iron-like – and shivered.
"Impressive," he acknowledged, pressing gently against her blade so she pivoted away from him. "I'd almost think you've been practicing."
"Don't flatter yourself," Zhera snapped, baiting him forward. Her voice was low and clipped, eyes locked on his chest – just for a moment, then they slid up to meet his. In that silver gaze, she sensed humor. "I just don't want another headache."
The corner of Xavriel's lips quirked upward at that. "Noted." In one fluid motion, he swept his own sword towards her, an elegant, almost lazy sweep. It was the kind of move that looked casual, but Zhera recognized the intent: he aimed to test her reflexes. She ducked under it, but the sword grazed her shoulder. Sharp pain lanced through her back as she spun around, lashing out her own attack. Clang—Xavriel blocked again, though a twitch of surprise crossed his face.
"You're not hiding your strength as much," he murmured, tone approving.
"Watch it," Zhera warned, voice low with heat. "Your bruises will be next."
Neither of them broke eye contact as they traded blows in a deliberate ballet of power and precision. In the dim hall, the sound of their swords clashing echoed like distant thunder. Every time their arms connected—whether sword to sword, blade to blade—the proximity set her pulse racing. The heat from his body bled through her gloves whenever their arms brushed during parries. Once, in the arc of her leg sweep, her thigh slid against his hip as he sidestepped. The friction made her catch her breath.
He followed her movement, keeping just a hair's breadth away, and her eyes widened for a fraction of a second as she realized: this was how close they had always been. That stolen contact felt like sparks on her skin. A thin smile curved Xavriel's lips, as though he sensed her surprise. His cloak flowed behind him, fluttering like black wings, and when Zhera leaped forward attempting a spinning kick, he caught her around the waist with one arm.
She gasped in shock as he hoisted her slightly off the ground. Heart hammering and breath caught in her throat, Zhera felt his chest against her back. He smelled like twilight and rich earth, and she fought the rush of warmth that threatened to spread between her legs. Their eyes locked in the reflection of a tall mirror on the far wall. For a heartbeat, time stilled—the only sound the rapid beat of her own heart that felt thunderous against his strong bicep.
Xavriel's silver eyes danced with something she couldn't read. His touch was firm but careful, grounding, as her toes skimmed the floor. She could feel the small of his back under his shirt, hard as granite, and it took everything not to press into him. Zhera bit back a whisper.
"Ground's slippery tonight?" he teased softly, shifting her weight so she landed lightly. His tone was playful, but she noticed an edge of relief in it, as if he secretly enjoyed the sparring that pushed his boundaries.
Flushing, Zhera replied with a grin, "Maybe I'm just not a graceful cat." She straightened, heart still thudding, denying the dizzy spark his laugh sparked in her.
He struck again—gentle but firm—and knocked aside her sword hilt with the flat of his blade. Zhera rolled with the force, coming up with her back nearly against a pillar. She hacked a short breath, chest heaving. Xavriel advanced, closing the distance, forcing her to push back into the stone to avoid a blow to the face.
As their blades clashed near her ears, Zhera's eyes found his once more. They were almost unnaturally clear under the flickering torchlight, showing a curiosity mixed with something tender that she couldn't quite name. "You're defiantly better than I remember," he murmured, so softly she almost didn't hear. His voice was low, the barest sound above the evening's hush.
Zhera's mind slipped just a second, caught off guard by that gentle praise. She replied swiftly, eyes narrowed, "I'm not here to impress you, just to not lose again."
Guilty or pleased at her fierce determination, Xavriel didn't say more. His next move was a blur of practiced precision: he feinted high, then caught Zhera's arm as she blocked the imaginary strike. With a soft grunt, he spun her around, and suddenly she was pressed up against the marble pillar, her cheek inches from his chest.
Breath rasped in Zhera's lungs. He felt surprisingly warm through his thin shirt. In that charged silence, she heard his heartbeat – steady and strong, a reassuring rumble against her cheek. The pulse at her throat thundered in her ears. She dared to glance up, and their eyes locked again, his on hers with steady intensity.
"Getting tired, princess?" he whispered into her ear, voice smooth and low. His proximity made the air between them feel electric – a slow burn that seared edges of her awareness.
"I don't tire," Zhera replied evenly, even as she could feel her knees weaken slightly beneath him. Her own tone was breathless but steady. The silken brush of his hair at the nape of her neck drew an involuntary shiver. "I'm just biding my time."
A faint, indulgent chuckle vibrated through Xavriel's chest. He let his grip around her arm tighten for just an instant – possessively — and then released her. Swift as a cat, Zhera spun away, putting distance between them in a sudden burst. She squared her shoulders, breath quick but steady again.
Xavriel backed off a step, sword lowered to the floor, letting her regain her footing. He wasn't hurt; on the contrary, the look in his eyes had become something admiring and almost warm as he watched her distance herself.
"You came close," he said, voice even, though their rapid breaths still mingled in the space. His eyes flicked to the sword she held, then back to her.
Zhera kept her gaze on the blade between them. She studied the slight curve of its hilt as if seeing it for the first time. When she finally met his eyes again, she managed a sly, dangerous smile. "I'm only getting started."