The first light of dawn fell upon the high stone walls of Ashenfang Keep, covering the battlements with hues of gold and crimson. In the training ground below, the clash of steel can be heard, sharp and rhythmic, like a old music.
Dame Serenya Valeblood moved like a blade herself—precise, fluid. Her longsword gleamed under the sun with each arc, while across from her, Kael struggled to keep up.
The squire's breaths was quick and uneven, his sword arm trembling as their blades met with a new strike. Serenya did not stop to let him catch his breath. She pressed forward with disciplined ferocity, each attack tested not only his defense but his endurance also.
"Your stance, Kael," she barked, as her steel slide against his in a flurry. "If you lean forward like that, you'll be gutted before you've drawn your second breath."
"I'm—" He gritted his teeth, blocking her next swing barely in time. "I'm still standing, aren't I?"
"Barely."
Around the yard, a ring of soldiers and stable boys had gathered, some with arms crossed, others with hushed words between them. Their gazes were not targeted on Kael's flailing defense, but on rather Serenya herself. Her name carried weight in the barracks, in the taverns, and in the tales told to children: the Valeblood Knight, the king's strong right hand, the woman who had cut through brigands, beasts, and border skirmishes alike.
"She moves like fire," one guard muttered, awe thick in his tone.
"And cuts twice as deep," another added. "No wonder they say no man in the kingdom can best her."
Kael heard them and, red-faced, pushed harder. He lunged, reckless, hoping to surprise her. Serenya shifted, turning his momentum against him. With a twist of her wrist, his blade fell to the dirt, and in the same motion her sword torched the hollow of his throat.
"Look at that you are dead, very dead." She said flatly.
Kael groaned and threw up his hands. "You're impossible. Even when I think I've got you—"
"You think too much." Serenya lowered her blade, offering him a hand. When he hesitated, she smirked. "And you doubt too quickly."
He took her grip, pulling himself upright. Sweat all over his face from his dark hair to his brow, and his chest heaved like a bellows. "One day," he said between breaths, "I'll beat you. Then we'll see who doubts too quickly."
"Perhaps." Her tone softened, just barely. "But not today."
The crowd murmured, half amused, half reverent, as Kael retrieved his sword from the dirt.
The banners above them, once vibrant with crimson and gold, now hung faded and frayed, tugged by the morning breeze. The stones beneath their feet bore cracks from long years of marching feet. Even here, at the heart of the keep, the weight of a declining king lingered.
Kael's expression changed as he followed her gaze. "The king…" he said quietly, lowering his voice. "They're saying he won't last the season. Some say it's a curse. Others—"
"Enough." Serenya's voice cut sharp, but the shadow in her eyes betrayed her own unease. She turned from him, lifting her blade to rest it against her shoulder. "Rumors are the refuge of cowards. Until I hear it from his own mouth, I'll not give them breath."
Kael opened his mouth wanting to say something, but then thought better of it. He nodded, though his jaw remained tight.
The solders training session was broken by the sound of hurried boots. A royal messenger crossed the yard, red sash flaring against the gray of his tunic. His voice carried over the murmurs:
"Dame Serenya Valeblood. You are summoned to the throne room. At once."
A hush fell over the yard. Soldiers exchanged glances, murmuring to themselves. The messenger's words had the weight of omen.
Serenya sheathed her blade with a single smooth motion. She looked around at all the gathered men until her gaze briefly settled on Karl. He tried to look brave, but worry clouded his young face.
"See to the men," she told him, voice steady. "And keep your ears shut. Gossip is for those too weak to weld a sword."
Without waiting for reply, she strode after the messenger.
The keep's halls stretched before her, tall and solemn. Tapestries hung on the wall they are woven with tales of dragon-slayers and kings, that have now dimmed with age. The air was thick, with tension.
Nobles lingered in alcoves, Serenya watched as they murmured amongst themselves voices low and eyes sharp. They looked at her as she passed, calculating, assessing Serenya already knows what they are thinking, they are weighing the realm without its king.
"Those power hungry bastards." Serenya says to herself.
Servants darted through the corridors, carrying trays, scrolls, and baskets. Their whispers carried far more information than the nobles': Cinderheart Blight. Ashenfang burns from the insides. The king cannot rise from his bed.
Serenya's jaw tightened. Each word pressed against her chest like a stone.
The king is in real trouble.