Aezrel:
From the moment she stepped into the ring, I knew she wasn't fighting her opponent she was fighting the whole damn world. And the world was losing.
Luna moved like every blow she landed carried the weight of a buried grudge. Not just anger grief, sharpened into something lethal. Her footwork was precise but unpredictable, like a wolf circling prey it had already decided to kill. I'd seen warriors fight for glory, for coin, for the thrill of blood. This… wasn't any of that.
She was fighting to keep herself from shattering.
I'd been watching her for weeks, quietly, pretending my interest was political. It wasn't. Not entirely. She was the kind of storm you didn't try to survive you learned to ride it, or it tore you apart.
When the match ended, her opponent collapsed, gasping. The crowd's noise swelled, but her eyes were somewhere else. Somewhere darker. I caught her gaze across the training grounds, and for a split second, the noise fell away.
She looked at me like she already knew I was part of whatever haunted her.
And maybe she was right.
I pushed through the crowd, my voice low enough to avoid drawing too much attention. "Walk with me."
Her jaw tightened, but she followed. We moved past the sparring fields, into the shaded corridor that led toward the inner keep. She kept a measured distance, but her shoulders stayed tense, as though she expected me to strike or kiss her. I wasn't sure which she'd prefer.
"You fight like you're punishing something," I said finally.
"I am." Her tone was flat, but her eyes dared me to keep asking.
I didn't. Not yet. I needed her trust before I told her the truth, that her mother's death wasn't the accident she'd been told it was. That there were names on the list of conspirators, and one of them sat close to the King's ear. That I'd been assigned to guard her not out of duty… but because I owed her bloodline more than she could possibly understand.
Instead, I studied her face, memorizing the way the afternoon light traced her cheekbones. Every detail mattered. When the time came, I'd need to know her better than she knew herself.
But for now, I said only this:
"Luna… if you keep fighting like that, sooner or later, someone will come for you."
Her lips curved into something between a smirk and a snarl.
"They already have."
And just like that, I knew
She wasn't the one who needed saving.
She was the one about to set the whole board on fire.
...
The corridor narrowed as we walked, the air heavy with the scent of oil lamps and dusted stone. The clamor from the training yards faded until it was only the echo of our footsteps. She kept her eyes forward, refusing to give me more than the sharp line of her profile.
"You've been watching me," she said finally. It wasn't a question.
"I watch everyone," I lied smoothly.
Her gaze flicked toward me, assessing. "No. Not like that. You're studying me."
She wasn't wrong. I'd been cataloging her every move how her left foot landed a fraction heavier when she pivoted, the way her fingers twitched before she struck, the shift in her breathing before she feigned weakness. These weren't just fighter's instincts; they were survivor's tells.
"You're dangerous," I said. "That interests me."
"Dangerous people get put down, Captain."
I stopped walking, letting the echo of her words stretch between us.
"That depends on who's holding the leash."
For the briefest moment, her expression cracked, and I saw the girl under the armor a flicker of doubt, of wanting to believe there could be an ally in this place. But it was gone in a breath, replaced by something harder.
She took a step closer, close enough that I could smell the faint tang of steel and sweat on her skin. "If you think I'm going to be your hound, you're wrong."
I leaned down, my voice low enough for only her to hear. "I'm not asking you to follow. I'm warning you there are wolves bigger than you think, and they already have your scent."
Her eyes narrowed, but curiosity flashed there, quick and unguarded.
I could have told her everything right then. About the whispers in the council chamber, about the sealed letter I'd found with her family's crest scorched into the wax, about the man in the shadows who had paid handsomely to keep her in the dark. But information was a blade too early, and she'd cut herself with it.
So I gave her only one truth.
"Your mother's death wasn't an accident."
The words landed like a strike to the ribs. She didn't flinch outwardly, but her pulse jumped at the base of her throat.
"What do you know?" she asked, voice tight.
"Enough to keep you alive. For now."
We stood there, locked in silence, the corridor between us charged like a bowstring drawn to breaking point. She wanted to demand more. I wanted to tell her. Neither of us moved.
A voice from down the hall broke the moment a squire calling my name. I didn't turn.
"This conversation isn't over," I told her.
Her reply was soft but sharp. "It is if you don't start talking."
I let her walk away. Watching her retreat was harder than it should have been, because I knew what waited for her outside these walls. And if she was going to survive it… she'd have to trust me.
And trust was the one thing I'd never been able to earn without blood.
...
By nightfall, the city had swallowed itself in fog. Lanternlight pooled in the cobblestones, fractured by the drizzle that slicked every surface. I pulled my hood low, letting the wet cloth shadow my face.
The Broken Stag was the kind of tavern you didn't find by accident. No sign hung outside, just a warped oak door and the stench of boiled gin seeping through the cracks. Inside, the air was thick with the low hum of whispered bets and the faint twang of a lute missing two strings.
He was already there Tomas Karr, former council archivist turned sellhand, his hair gone to white but his eyes still sharp as cut glass. He didn't stand when I approached, just slid a tankard across the table with a knotted hand.
"You're late," he said.
"You're alive," I replied. "So it seems I'm right on time."
His thin smile didn't reach his eyes. "You've been sniffing around the girl."
I didn't confirm or deny. In this place, every word was a coin; you didn't spend unless you knew its worth.
Tomas leaned in, his breath carrying the tang of old wine. "You think you're protecting her. But she's already marked. Her father saw to that before she could even walk."
The name I'd been avoiding burned the back of my throat. "He's dead."
"Dead men cast longer shadows than the living," Tomas murmured.
He slid something across the table a folded scrap of parchment, edges darkened by fire. The seal was broken, the wax warped but still bearing the faint outline of a wolf's head crowned in thorns.
I didn't open it here. Not yet.
"What's the price?" I asked.
"Your silence," he said. "If you tell her before the council moves, you'll damn you both."
That was the thing about men like Tomas they liked to pretend they were warning you for your own good, when in truth they just didn't want you ruining their game.
I stood, pocketing the parchment. "You always were a coward."
"And you always thought you could save people who don't want saving," he said, not looking up.
The rain hit harder as I stepped outside, running cold tracks down my neck. Somewhere above, the watch bells rang midnight. Somewhere beyond the fog, Luna was in her quarters, probably pacing, probably cursing my name.
She wanted answers. I had them now.
The question was whether she could handle what came with them because once she knew, she'd never be the same.
And neither would I.