The morning came softer than she expected.
Eva woke with the heaviness of the past night still clinging to her chest, but it no longer pinned her down. The music she had pulled from the piano lingered in her mind—not the sound itself, but the release, the sense that something long-caged had finally been given air.
She thought she would dread facing Lucarion again in the salle. Every bout had been a test, every loss a wound he savored. But now… she found herself almost eager. To strike at him, even in play. To drive her blade into the narrow gaps he left open and see that faint flicker of surprise on his face.
She dressed quickly, binding her wrists with familiar care.
—
The salle rang with steel before the sun had climbed high. Lucarion moved with his usual precision, each step a pattern, each strike measured. Eva matched him, her breath quick, her muscles burning. Yet today, there was something different in the way she wielded the blade.
Sharper. Bolder.
She caught his guard once, driving him back a pace. Not victory—never that—but enough to earn the faint lift of one brow, the barest pause of consideration in his stance.
"You're enjoying this," he remarked, their swords locked.
Her lips curved, quick as the lunge that followed. "Immensely."
For the first time, the taste of their sparring was not defeat, but exhilaration.
Lucarion let the clash linger, his blade pressing against hers with deliberate patience. "Good," he said, voice low. "You fight best when you forget the weight you carry."
The words snagged. She blinked once, caught off guard by the softness in them. He did not press—merely shifted, breaking the lock and circling her with a predator's ease.
Eva steadied, narrowing her eyes. "Careful. That almost sounded like encouragement."
"Don't mistake me," Lucarion said, but there was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. "You're still far too easy to read."
She bristled, slashing toward him in reply, her strikes sharper, angrier. He absorbed them, parrying without cruelty, letting her fire flare and spark against his calm.
And when her blade slipped, nearly opening her guard, he didn't punish her for it. He let her recover, as though curious what she would do next.
Her suspicion flickered, visible in the set of her mouth. "You're holding back."
"Am I?" His eyes glinted as their blades locked again. "Or maybe I want to see what happens when you realize I'm not your enemy."
The heat of her glare met his, unflinching. "Not my enemy?" Her voice cut sharp.
"No—you're my destined husband."
Steel rang.
"My lord protector."
A strike, fierce.
"My jailer."
Another blow, harder.
"And soon enough—" she spat, driving her blade forward, "sire to demigods."
Lucarion absorbed each word, each strike, without answering, without flinching. Only his eyes moved, fixed on her with a stillness more unsettling than any retaliation.
They stilled, blades trembling in the half-stance between attack and defense. Her breath came quick, her chest heaving, her eyes alight with fury.
"Then tell me," she said, voice sharp, pressing forward. "If I am your future—your claim, your bloodline's heir—why do you fence with me? Why not… make me yield?"
Lucarion's eyes didn't waver. The faintest shift of his stance, deliberate, measured, betrayed nothing. "Because I do not take what is given unwillingly."
The words might have sounded merciful, from another mouth. From him, they only sharpened her unease.
He spoke as though her refusal were part of some elaborate game—as though patience itself were a weapon he could wield until she broke.
She met his gaze, steady, unblinking. If he meant to wear her down, he would find her iron.
"And you think I would ever give it freely?"
He tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting, a faint curve at the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps. But I will see every move you make until your choice reaches me."
The words were neither a threat, nor a promise. They were a boundary drawn in steel and shadow—like their blades—and for a moment, she felt the sharpest edge of his control: quiet, unyielding, deliberate.
—
The rest of the day passed in quiet routine. Meals in the wing. Pages from a book she hardly read. Conversations with servants she measured carefully, testing for cracks.
But the echo of the morning lingered.
Her mind kept returning to that moment in the salle, the question she had asked, sharp and probing: Why not make me yield?
It had not been mere curiosity, or challenge. It had been a test—one of the ways she might tap into the God of War's power coursing through her blood. Every Spear knew that no creature survived trying to take one by force.
And yet, his answer had been absolute.
I do not take what is given unwillingly.
That path, that release, was not open—at least not yet.
She felt the weight of frustration. That patience, that control, made the monster she had glimpsed loom taller—ancient, deliberate, and infinitely powerful. She thought of every other time she had tested the limits of a foe: they had either fallen by her own hand or incurred the wrath of her god. Yet Lucarion kept slipping through every attempt.
This was different. A new test. One far harder to overcome.
By the time the sun began to sink, she could no longer bear the stillness of the walls. She stepped into the open air, letting the wind clear the weight of his presence from her thoughts. The sky blazed with fire at the horizon, shadows stretching long across the grounds.
She wandered without aim, letting her steps guide her, and with each careful footfall, she silently asked her god for guidance, for clarity, for the answer she could not find on her own.
The sound of stamping hooves drew her to a low stone building at the edge of the walls.
The stables.
The scent of hay and warm hide met her as she stepped inside. Lantern-light caught the glossy coats of the horses, their dark eyes turning to her with quiet curiosity.
One in particular drew her forward: a gray mare, tall and broad-shouldered, with a stark white blaze cutting down her face. Strength rippled beneath her sleek coat, powerful, restless—built to run, to fight restraint.
The mare huffed as Eva approached, ears twitching, then lowered her head just enough to press her nose into Eva's palm. The warmth of the gesture startled her, soft and certain.
Eva's lips parted, breath catching faintly. Her fingers stroked the silken curve of the mare's neck, and something in her chest eased, just a fraction. Here was no watchful vampire lord, no cage of expectations—only the steady rhythm of breath and the gentle weight of trust.
"Not so different from me, are you?" she whispered, voice low. "Bound within another's walls."
The words slipped out before she realized they were as much for her as the mare.
The mare stamped lightly, as if in answer.
Eva's fingers lingered on the mare's neck, the rhythm of breath and warmth beneath her hand grounding her. When she brushed against the mare's jaw, the gray beast snorted suddenly, nudging her shoulder with a stubborn insistence that nearly unbalanced her.
A startled laugh slipped from Eva's throat. Soft, quick, unguarded. She could feel the muscles of her face working in ways they hadn't for years, as if she were returning to the training grounds after a long absence. The sound startled her almost as much as the mare's nudge. It felt strange in her body—alien, like speaking a word in a language she had forgotten. Strange, and good.
For the space of a heartbeat, she let it stay.
From the shadows, Lucarion watched.
The lantern-light traced her profile in gold and shadow, her hand stilling against the mare's coat as the sound left her lips. He had heard her voice in anger, in suspicion, in defiance sharpened to steel. But never this. Never laughter. Never the curve of her mouth unarmed.
It unsettled him more than her blade ever had.
Something stirred low and sharp, as an old instinct rose in recognition. The predator in him marked it with the same certainty as scent or blood: she was no longer just a captive, or a pawn. She was singular. The pull of her was gravity itself—inescapable, undeniable.
He exhaled once, slow.
Then he stepped forward, letting his presence be known.
"You found Lucy."
Eva's hand stilled against the mare's neck. She turned her head—Lucarion stood in the shadow between lanterns, his arms loose at his sides. She realized, with a flicker of heat, that he had been watching for some time.
Her brow arched, her tone edged to cover the slip. "Lucy?"
His gaze moved to the mare, softening in a way she had never seen. "She was my mother's gift to me. Strong-willed. Too much for most to handle." His mouth curved faintly. "I'm one of the few she trusts."
Eva drew a breath, stroking the mare's sleek neck, forcing her voice into steadiness. "Well. She doesn't seem to mind me."
"No," he said quietly, eyes never leaving hers. "She doesn't."
The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring. Lucy stamped once, the sound ringing loud in the hush—yet it wasn't enough to break the weight of what lingered between them.
She held his gaze, drawn into its orbit with a force she could neither resist nor name, the moment pressing against her chest as though the world had contracted around them.
For a heartbeat, the shadow of her earlier deliberations—the monster, the impossible test he represented—pressed against her mind. The man before her teased the edges of that image, hinting at something else, but before she could dwell on it, the thought vanished, swallowed by the interruption.
"My lord," a voice said, low but urgent. "From the border. One of our scouts has returned—with news you'll want to hear."
Lucarion's expression shifted, the warmth that had flickered there shuttering in an instant. "See that he is taken to the solar," he said without turning from Eva. "No one else hears him."
The messenger bowed and withdrew.
For a heartbeat longer, Lucarion remained, his gaze still fixed on her, unreadable. Then he inclined his head—a gesture of both farewell and command—and left, the air cooling in his wake.
Eva stood in the quiet that followed, Lucy's steady breath the only sound left between them.