Dawn broke over the capital, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and rose. The opulent silks of the royal bedchamber were left behind for the harsh reality of the palace's private training courtyard. The air, cool and sharp with the promise of another sweltering day, rang with the sharp clack of wood on wood.
King Rega IV, stripped down to a simple linen tunic and breeches, moved with a fluid, predatory grace that belied his languid throne-room persona. His hair was damp with sweat, plastered against his brow as he parried a swift, precise strike from Zuri. The heavy wooden blade in his hands deflected hers with a jarring impact that rattled her wrists.
At the same moment, he sidestepped a powerful lunge from Kenya. Her movements were a study in focused, unyielding strength, but her momentum betrayed her—he caught her blade with his and shoved her off balance. They were drenched in sweat, their breaths ragged and heavy, but their eyes—those burning, determined eyes—held a fire that had been absent the night before.
"Too slow, Zuri!" Rega snapped. His voice was not cruel, not truly, but sharp with the weight of expectation. He spun inside her guard, his wooden sword rapping her ribs with a solid thwack. She gasped, stumbling back. "Gethii will not grant you that much time. He creates openings where none exist. You must learn to see the fight three steps ahead, not one."
Zuri gritted her teeth, refusing to clutch her side. "Yes, Your Majesty," she growled.
Kenya pressed forward, using her moment to attack. Her strikes came down like hammer blows, relentless and full of fury. Rega met each one, his feet planted firmly in the dirt. Every swing drove against him with the weight of a boulder, but his sword turned aside each strike.
"Better, Kenya!" Rega's voice rose over the clash of wood. "You have the strength of the mountain, but you fight like a mountain. Immovable. Predictable." He twisted, catching her lunge and redirecting her weight. Kenya stumbled forward, nearly falling face-first into the dirt.
Rega circled her, voice hard. "A true storm does not just crash against the mountain—it flows around it. It shreds it from every angle. You must be both the mountain and the storm."
Kenya growled low in her throat. "Then teach me to be both."
For an hour, he pushed them mercilessly. Every strike, every parry, every mistake was punished with bruises and harsh words. Yet beneath the severity, there was a strange undercurrent of care. He broke down the fight with Gethii into brutal lessons—pointing out the tiny lapse in coordination that had left them vulnerable, the way Gethii had used his single arm not as weakness, but as weapon.
"He does not waste movement," Rega lectured, pacing between them as they knelt in exhaustion. "He does not hesitate. His loss has become his blade, sharper than steel. Until you can endure that… you are prey."
Zuri wiped sweat from her brow, jaw tight. "Then we will endure it, Majesty. Even if it breaks us."
Rega's lips twitched into something between approval and amusement. "Good. That is the answer I expect."
Finally, when their legs shook too violently to stand, he called a halt. He leaned on his wooden sword, chest heaving with controlled breaths. Across the courtyard, Zuri reached down, grasping Kenya's forearm to pull her to her feet. They exchanged a look—exhausted, yet bonded deeper than before.
Rega's gaze lingered on them. They were getting stronger. But in his heart, he knew it wasn't enough. Training could sharpen steel, but it could not mend a kingdom bleeding from its wounds.
As his body cooled from exertion, his mind turned to the festering problems waiting outside the courtyard walls. The crops dying in the fields, the famine creeping closer with each passing week. And above it all—the war. The endless, draining war with the Northern tribes of Botorn. A war sparked by his father's madness and perpetuated by Lord Kaden's unyielding hatred.
Rega tightened his grip on the sword until his knuckles whitened. Pushing Zuri and Kenya was necessary, but it was only preparation. A shield, not a solution. If he wanted peace—true peace—he had to go beyond force. He had to attempt the one thing left untried: diplomacy.
He tossed a waterskin toward Zuri. She caught it, gulping greedily, before passing it to Kenya. His expression hardened, the softness of a teacher fading back into the mask of a king.
"Rest. Recover," he commanded. His voice brooked no argument. "At dawn tomorrow, we begin again. The lesson is not over."
"Yes, Majesty," they answered in unison, voices hoarse but steady.
When they departed, dragging their weary bodies with stubborn pride, Rega turned toward the shadow of the courtyard wall. An aide waited there, silent as a ghost.
"Prepare the Table in the throne room," Rega ordered. His tone had shifted entirely now, cold and commanding. "Calibrate the scrying matrix for a priority connection to the Botorn palace. And summon Lord Njiru. I will require his… unique perspective."
The aide bowed and vanished.
An hour later, silence swallowed the vast throne room. Only the low, resonant hum of ancient magic filled the air. Rega stood before the massive circular table, its polished surface reflecting him in warped shadows. Behind him, Njiru waited like a statue cloaked in black, expression unreadable.
Rega took a long, steadying breath. His chest still burned faintly from the training, but his mind was sharper than it had been in weeks. This was his final gambit. He did not expect success—but he could not let failure come without trying.
With a flick of his hand, shimmering lines of energy spiraled into the air. They wove together, sparking and crackling, until the distorted image of another throne room came into view. This one was built not of stone and gold, but of wood and living vines.
At its center appeared a man with grief carved into his face and hatred burning in his eyes.
Lord Kaden of Botorn.
His lips curled into a snarl the instant he recognized who summoned him.
"Rega," Kaden spat, his voice rough with contempt. "I should have known the coward king would hide behind tricks of magic instead of facing me with steel."
Rega did not flinch. His eyes hardened, a predator's calm settling over him. "Steel has gained us nothing but graves. Perhaps words might succeed where blood has failed."
Kaden leaned forward, his image flickering like flame. "Then speak your words, boy-king. But know this—my patience runs thinner than your borders."