Two days later, the courtyard was filled with early morning fog, clinging low around the training grounds like a veil. It was the kind of silence that usually wrapped the palace in sleep. But Elena was already there, sword in hand.
Waiting.
She didn't know if Lucien would show. He hadn't said anything more since their last brief exchange. Still, something in her gut told her he would.
And he did.
She heard the crunch of his boots before she saw him. He stepped through the mist like it parted for him—straight-backed, dark cloak shifting behind him, expression unreadable as always.
"You're early," he said simply.
"I couldn't sleep," she replied, then regretted how honest that sounded.
He didn't respond, just glanced at the sword she held. "Draw."
Elena blinked. "No warm-up?"
Lucien turned slightly, drawing his own blade in one fluid motion. "Warm-ups are for people who need to remember what they are."
It wasn't arrogance. Just truth.
She nodded, gripped her sword tighter, and moved into stance.
The spar began quietly—no battle cries, no explosive auras. Just the sound of steel meeting steel. His movements were clean, controlled. She did her best to keep up, focus sharpened from the last duel. Her muscles remembered more than she expected.
Minutes passed.
She landed a strike on his shoulder. A light one—but it made him pause.
"You've improved," Lucien said, adjusting his grip.
"I've been practicing," she said, a little breathless. "With myself."
"Clearly."
She wasn't sure, but for a moment… it almost sounded like a compliment.
They circled again, swords grazing, feet sliding through the dew-damp grass. She wasn't winning, not really, but she wasn't losing either. That felt like a win.
After a while, Lucien stepped back and lowered his sword.
"Enough."
Elena held her stance for a beat longer before exhaling and relaxing her grip. Her arms trembled slightly from exertion, but her heart was pounding for a different reason.
He looked at her again—not dismissively, but with a kind of assessing gaze, as if seeing her for the first time… properly.
"You have potential," he said at last.
Elena swallowed. "So I've been told."
"Potential is nothing without discipline."
"I know."
Silence settled again, but not the uncomfortable kind. More like something was growing in the space between them.
Lucien finally spoke again, voice quieter this time. "You didn't hesitate this time. Even when you were at a disadvantage."
"I didn't want to disappoint you."
She hadn't meant to say that. But the words slipped out before she could stop them.
Lucien didn't move. His expression didn't change. But something in his eyes flickered—just briefly.
"Elena," he said, voice low, almost warning.
"I know," she said quickly, stepping back. "I'm not asking for anything."
A beat passed.
"I just—" She looked away. "I just want to be useful to you. That's all."
Lucien said nothing. The silence stretched, longer than before.
Then: "I don't need sentiment."
"I'm not giving it," she lied.
Another pause. Then Lucien turned away, sliding his sword back into its sheath.
"You've done enough for today," he said, walking past her. "We'll resume in three days."
As he moved past, Elena didn't turn to follow him.
She stood still, her back to him, eyes shut against the rising ache in her chest.
She told herself not to care. Told herself it was fine. He was cold. He always would be.
But still, a part of her waited—just a small part—for him to say her name again. To turn back. Even just once.
He didn't.
And yet… she would still show up.
Every time.