The training yard echoed with the sharp clang of steel against steel, punctuated by the grunts of squires and the barked commands of Sir Leon. Evening had draped the castle in a mellow gold, shadows curling long beneath the flickering torchlight.
Kaelith lingered at the edge of the sand, her arms folded and her gown far too fine for a place like this. Ivory silk with golden embroidery caught the dying light, flowing around her like a sun-drenched breeze. She had no reason to be here.
Which, of course, was the reason she was.
Leon caught her presence instantly. Her laughter, light and careless, drifted over the clang of swords. He glanced her way just once, quick as a heartbeat, then returned to yelling at a squire with too-loose wrists.
"You're holding it like you're petting your mother's cat," he growled.
Kaelith chuckled behind her hand. "Oh, come now, Leon. Not everyone was raised with a sword in their crib."
He looked over, jaw tight, eyes wary. "Kaelith."
"Sir Leon," she said sweetly. "Should I curtsy? Or is that reserved for when you're not sweaty and scowling?"
He shook his head but didn't smile. Not properly.
She stepped closer, her slippered feet brushing the sand. "I thought you said you'd join me for wine tonight."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't say no."
Leon paused, then grunted something that wasn't quite a response and turned back to the squires.
Kaelith watched for a moment, her playful mask slipping. There was a brief silence between the hammering sounds of sparring.
"You always find a reason," she said quietly.
He stopped, just for a beat. His back was still to her. "Don't you have embroidery to tend to?"
"Don't you have a smile somewhere you're hiding?"
Now he turned. Just a little. Just enough for her to see the weight behind his eyes.
"Kaelith," he said, voice rougher than usual, "I'm not like them. The lords. The nobles. I wasn't born into gold. I wasn't raised with titles or silk. I was a rat with a dagger who got lucky."
"You're the commander of the King's guard," she replied. "You protect Arkenfall. You train future warriors. You saved Damon's life more than once."
He looked at her. Really looked. And Kaelith hated how her breath caught.
"There are plenty of men in Arkenfall who would trade a kingdom just to share wine with you," Leon said, his voice quieter than she expected.
Kaelith blinked. A thousand clever retorts danced on her tongue, but none of them came. Not this time.
"And yet," she said, voice light but soft around the edges, "I asked you."
A pause stretched between them, not heavy, but full—like the hush before a storm or a breath held too long.
Leon glanced down, "You shouldn't."
She raised an eyebrow, her tone sharpening just enough. "Shouldn't what?"
"Choose me."
Kaelith tilted her head, studying him as if he were a map with secret paths. "Leon—"
"I'm not..." he started, then stopped, jaw tightening. He finally met her gaze. "I'm not what you think I am."
Her smile faded. She had seen this wall before—in the way he deflected flirtation, the way he dismissed compliments. But tonight, he was naming it, even if only halfway.
"Is that so?" she asked, folding her arms, though her voice remained calm. "You think I'm chasing a title? A sword arm? A name carved in royal stone?"
Leon gave a short laugh, the kind that carried no humor. "You could have anyone."
"But I didn't want anyone."
That silence again.
"Kaelith... I've seen too much blood to be soft. I wasn't born in velvet. I don't have lands or a legacy. I was just... lucky enough to survive long enough for Damon to notice me."
"Is that how you see yourself?" she asked gently.
He didn't answer.
"Fine, then." Kaelith stepped away first. Not because she wanted to, but because she knew a locked door when she saw one.
Before he could respond, she was gone—leaving behind the faint scent of rose water and the whisper of something unfinished.
********************
Lord Velmorn had departed just after noon, his carriage bound for Halemond. Neriah had stood at the gate with him for a while, her fingers curled around his gloved hand, heart heavy with the kind of ache only goodbyes can bring. He had pressed a kiss to her forehead, whispering that she was stronger than she thought—that Halemond was proud of her. Of course, she had nodded, smiled… but something stirred within her deeper than pride. Resolve. Clarity.
She was in love.
There was no question now, no fear large enough to bury the truth of it. Not anymore. Damon had waited. Damon had kept his distance when he knew she was afraid, when it would have been easier to demand her presence or wrap her up in words she wasn't ready to hear. He had waited.
And she would no longer let that wait stretch on.
By evening, her decision carried her to the threshold of his chamber.
She clutched a simple excuse like armor—something about a book she'd left behind, though she hardly remembered if it was true. The corridors were quieter now. She reached for the polished gold handle, pushed the door open, and stepped into the vast, dimly lit room.
The scent hit her first.
Faintly smoky, touched with leather and something else—something only Damon ever smelled like. Gods, she had missed this room. The way the drapes moved in the wind, the books half-stacked beside his chair, the way it felt too large for one person but perfect for two. She exhaled slowly and wandered in, her fingers grazing the edge of a carved desk.
The silence felt almost holy.
She stopped near the wall where his weapons hung. The axe caught her eye immediately—still gleaming under candlelight. She stared at it for too long. The memory of the execution returned swiftly—how Damon's face had been unreadable, how the blood had pooled, how her stomach had curled.
She shut her eyes tight.
Strong, Neriah, she whispered inwardly. Be strong.
She heard his voice before she saw him.
"Riah?"
She startled—spinning slightly to find him emerging from the inner chamber, already dressed in a dark traveling cloak, fastening leather gauntlets over his wrists. His dark eyes met hers with a subtle intensity… and something else. Something softer.
"I—" she fumbled, "I just came to get a book I left here."
It was such an obvious lie, and they both knew it. Still, she pressed on, cheeks flushed. "I thought you weren't here."
"I was, just finishing preparations," Damon said, his gaze lingering on her face. "I'm riding out tonight."
"Oh." Her heart sank.
He moved to the table, still adjusting something in his gauntlets. "There are matters in Edravon that need my attention. It'll be a short ride, a few days at most."
Neriah's voice was small. "Politics?"
He looked up, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Don't worry," he said, stepping closer to her. "I won't be chopping anyone's head off."
A startled laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it. "I… I didn't think about that."
He arched a brow knowingly.
"I didn't!" she insisted, but her smile gave her away.
Damon stopped before her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his cloak. He reached for her hand slowly, as if asking permission with every movement. When she didn't flinch, when her fingers curled into his, he held them like they were the only anchor in the room.
"Riah," he said quietly, "I'll wait. However long it takes… I'll wait."
She swallowed hard.
"You mean more to me than all of this," he gestured faintly, "more than any crown or realm. You're not a prize to be won. You're a soul I cherish."
She didn't speak. Her heart was too full, her throat too tight.
He gently pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles once, then stepped back. "You can stay here, if you'd like," he added. "It's yours too."
Neriah watched him walk to the door.
Don't go. Stay. Hold me.
The words screamed inside her, but her lips betrayed her—afraid of saying too much too soon. Still, just before he stepped out, she called after him.
"Damon."
He turned.
She hesitated, her breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded. And though her mouth resisted, her soul broke free of its chains.
I love you.
The words were clear—so loud in her chest it almost felt as if they'd escaped. But they hadn't. Not really. They lived only in the silence between them, trembling in the candlelight.
What she said instead was softer. Simpler.
"Be careful," she whispered.
Damon studied her for a heartbeat. A flicker of something passed over his face—knowing, perhaps, or simply hope.
And then he smiled.
Not the smirk he wore in court, not the grin he reserved for victories—but a quiet, tender thing. A smile meant only for her.
He nodded once, as if her words had meant more than she knew. Then he turned and disappeared into the hall, his dark cloak trailing behind him.
Neriah stood there for a while longer, staring at the place where he'd been. The echo of his smile lingered in the air, and in the sudden hush that followed, she knew without doubt:
She had fallen—completely, recklessly, and irrevocably in love with the Storm King.