Dust tasted like copper. It coated the back of Kaelen's throat, dry and gritty, as he circled the other boy. The morning sun wasn't just hot; it was a physical weight on his shoulders, pressing him into the white sand of the Dawnhold training yard.
He wiped sweat from his eyes. It stung.
His opponent was Davin, a squire from a bonded Veythar house. The boy was built like a keg of ale 'thick neck, heavy wrists, swinging a practice longsword that looked more like a club in his hands. He breathed loud, a wet, hacking sound that grated on Kaelen's nerves.
Kaelen's own blade felt wrong. It was a standard-issue academy waster, the balance point a half-inch too high. It felt dead.
Step. Pivot. Don't look at the blade, look at the shoulder.
Davin roared 'actually roared 'and swung a clumsy, overhead cleave. It was stupid. It was strong. If it connected, it would crack a collarbone, armor or not.
Kaelen didn't block. You don't block an avalanche. He let his knees go soft and slid left. The wood hissed past his ear, close enough to ruffle his hair.
Open.
Davin's ribs were wide open. The leather jerkin was stretched tight, exposing the spot just below the armpit. Kaelen's point was already there. It would take one thrust. Just a shift of weight, a snap of the hips. Davin would go down gasping, the fight over.
Kaelen tightened his grip to drive it home.
Then he saw it. The flinch in Davin's eyes. The bracing for pain.
Mercy is a choice.
The thought snagged him. Kaelen hesitated 'a fraction of a second, but it was enough to ruin the rhythm. He didn't thrust. He twisted his wrists and slammed the flat of the blade into Davin's chest. A shove. A warning.
Davin stumbled back, boots skidding. He looked surprised, then angry. He didn't fall. He just reset his stance, face flushing an ugly red.
The yard went quiet. Not the respectful kind.
"Soft," someone muttered from the gallery.
Kaelen lowered his sword. The victory was right there, and he'd let it rot.
Master Deyric stood by the weapons rack, arms crossed over a chest that looked like it was carved from oak. He wasn't looking at Davin. He was looking at Kaelen's feet.
Then, the clapping started. Slow. Lazy.
Alaric was leaning against the fence, looking like he'd just woken up from a nap in a silk bed. He was everything a Veylor prince was supposed to be: tall, golden, and looking at Kaelen like he was a mildly interesting bug.
"Touching," Alaric called out. His voice cut through the heat. "Truly. If the barbarians storm the gates, we'll just shove them gently until they get embarrassed and leave."
The squires laughed. It was a nervous, eager sound 'they wanted Alaric to like them.
Kaelen's neck burned. He stared at the sand, gripping the waster until his knuckles ached. He'd won the exchange, technically. But he'd lost the room.
"Water."
Deyric didn't shout, but the word killed the laughter instantly.
Kaelen walked to the side, catching the waterskin Deyric tossed. The water was lukewarm and tasted of leather, but he drank it anyway to wash the copper taste out of his mouth.
"You had him," Deyric said. His voice sounded like rocks grinding together.
"I know," Kaelen said.
"Then why is he standing?" Deyric took the sword from Kaelen, checking the edge for splinters. "Ribs exposed. Center of gravity gone. You stopped."
"I didn't need to hurt him. He knew he was beat."
"He knew nothing. He thinks you missed." Deyric shoved the sword back into Kaelen's chest. "A strike turned aside is a promise, boy. It says, 'I could have ended you.' But if you deliver the message like a clumsy courier, no one reads it."
Deyric kicked Kaelen's boot. Hard.
"You pulled your weight back. You tried to be kind, and you lost your balance. That's not mercy. That's stupidity."
Kaelen looked up. "So I should have cracked his ribs?"
"No. You should have taken his feet." Deyric spat into the sand. "If you won't use the edge, you use the ground. Mercy isn't a gift you give people, Kaelen. It's a shackle. You put it on them. But you have to lock it first."
He gestured vaguely at the yard. "You move better than anyone I've seen in ten years. You flow. But water without a jar is just a puddle."
"They're laughing," Kaelen said, looking toward the barracks where Alaric had vanished.
"Let them laugh," Deyric said, turning his back. "Laughing men have their mouths open. Makes them easier to choke."
Kaelen found Alaric by the armory, checking his reflection in a polished steel gauntlet. Of course he was.
"Lovely shove," Alaric said without looking up. "Very… paternal."
"I had him," Kaelen said.
"You did. Then you didn't." Alaric tossed the gauntlet onto a table. Clang. "You have a special talent for unmaking your own victories, Kael."
"I won the bout."
"You won a moment." Alaric turned. He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes. "The Dominion doesn't run on moments. It runs on results. It respects a blade that finishes things."
He stepped into Kaelen's personal space. He smelled like expensive soap and steel oil. "You fight like you're apologizing for being better than them. It's insulting. To them, and to the House."
"I'm not apologizing."
"Then stop pulling your punches." Alaric straightened his tunic. "Court display at second bell. Father is watching. Try not to embarrass the banner. If you're going to be second best, at least be competent."
"I'll be there," Kaelen said. His voice sounded steady. He hoped it was.
"Good." Alaric clapped a hand on Kaelen's shoulder. It felt heavy. "Don't think so much. Just hit something."
He walked off, waving to a group of noble daughters who were pretending not to stare. They giggled. Kaelen watched him go and hated the part of himself that wished he could walk like that.
"Again?" Deyric called.
Kaelen rolled his shoulders. "Again."
"New partner. Marrow. Get out here."
Joren didn't walk out; he just sort of appeared. One second the shadow under the colonnade was empty, the next, Joren was standing in the light. He was slight, dark-haired, with eyes that looked like they'd seen the end of the world and found it boring.
He held two wooden daggers in a reverse grip.
"Highness," Joren said. His voice was dry as paper.
"Joren." Kaelen liked Joren. The Marrow heir didn't perform. He just existed.
"Begin!"
Kaelen set his feet. Joren didn't charge. He drifted. He moved like smoke in a drafty room, in and out of measure.
Kaelen feinted high. Joren didn't blink. Kaelen thrust low. Joren batted the blade aside with a flicker of his wrist and stepped in.
Too close.
The wooden dagger tapped Kaelen's kidney. A kill shot. But Joren didn't stop; he spun, hooking Kaelen's ankle with his boot.
Kaelen stumbled. End it with position.
He didn't fight the fall. He rode it. He dropped his shoulder and slammed into Joren, using his own weight as a weapon. He hooked Joren's knee, torquing his hips.
Physics took over. Joren went airborne.
They hit the sand in a tangle. Kaelen rolled, coming up on one knee. His blade was resting gently against Joren's throat.
Total control. No bruise. No blood. Just the fact of it.
Joren lay on his back, blinking up at the sun. A small, rare smirk touched his lips.
"Unexpected," Joren murmured. "Usually you broadcast your mercy three moves in advance."
"Trying something new," Kaelen said, offering a hand.
Joren took it. His grip was surprisingly strong for a guy who looked like a stiff breeze would knock him over. "It worked. I didn't see it until the sky was spinning."
The yard was quiet again. But this time, it didn't feel heavy.
"Better," Deyric grunted. "Mercy costs less when your control costs more."
The tunnel to the Royal Lists smelled like horses and saffron. Sunlight slashed through the arrow slits, lighting up the banners.
Black and Silver for Veylor. Blue Wings for Caelis. The Blood-Axe. The Iron Bow. And the blank strip of Marrow.
Kaelen stopped under the Veylor banner. He smoothed a wrinkle in the fabric. A nervous tic.
"You're thinking too loud," a voice said.
Queen Elyndra stepped out of the alcove. She wasn't wearing a crown 'she never needed one. She looked at him, her eyes sharp but not unkind.
"Eat," she said, holding out a handful of honeyed nuts. "You run on nerves and tea. It makes you jittery."
Kaelen took one. "They'll stick to my teeth."
"Better your teeth than your tongue." She reached up and brushed dust from his temple. Her fingers were cool. "The yard was loud today."
"Alaric was there. It's always loud."
"Noise is wind, Kaelen. Wind has no edge." She studied his face. "Your father sees more than he says. Don't mistake his silence for anger."
"It feels like anger."
"It feels like the Crown," she said. "He remembers what it costs to be the second son. The spare." She pressed the rest of the nuts into his hand. "Listen to me. Mercy isn't a lack of strength. It's a leash. If you don't hold it tight, someone else will grab it and choke you with it."
Kaelen nodded. The knot in his chest loosened, just a little. "Yes, Mother."
"Good." She turned him toward the light at the end of the tunnel. "Now go. And don't let them see you bleed."
The noise hit him first. A wall of sound.
The Royal Lists were packed. Nobles sat in the stone tiers like brightly colored birds 'Veythar lords in heavy furs, Caelis ladies in stiff silks, Thorne merchants calculating the odds.
King Aldrick sat on the Obsidian Throne. He was perfectly still. The sword across his knees was bare steel.
"By order of the Crown!" the herald shouted. "The Princes of Veylor!"
Alaric went first. The roar was deafening. He walked out like he owned the sand, the air, and the people breathing it. He fought a veteran of the Guard. It was a massacre. Alaric dismantled the man in three moves. Flashy. Arrogant. Perfect.
The crowd screamed his name.
Kaelen stood in the tunnel, heart hammering against his ribs.
"His Highness, Kaelen Veylor!"
He stepped out. The applause was thin. Polite.
His opponent was a Caelis spearman. Quick. Rangy. Reach was going to be a problem.
Geometry, Kaelen thought. Not a line. A circle.
The spearman thrust. Kaelen sidestepped. The spear swept low. Kaelen jumped.
"He's running away," a young lord whispered from the front row.
Kaelen gritted his teeth. The spearman lunged again, overextending just a hair.
Now.
Kaelen didn't strike with the edge. He stepped inside the spear's guard. He trapped the shaft under his arm, twisted his hips, and swept the guard's legs.
Hard.
The guard hit the sand with a sound like a dropped sack of grain. Kaelen stood over him, sword point hovering over the breastplate.
"Yield," Kaelen whispered.
The guard wheezed, nodded, and tapped the sand.
Kaelen looked at the dais. The King's face was unreadable, but his eyes were focused. Intense. Beside him, Elyndra gave a tiny nod.
But Alaric… Alaric was smiling. But his eyes were cold. Like a predator realizing the rabbit might have teeth.
The sun was gone by the time Kaelen got back to the practice yard. It was bathed in purple dusk. Quiet. Finally.
He picked up a waster. It still felt heavy.
Once for the jeer. He swung. The air hissed.
Once for the shove. He swung again. Harder.
Once for the laugh. He spun, slashing at a ghost, driving his feet into the sand, looking for that friction. That control.
"Again?"
Kaelen froze. Deyric was standing in the archway. A shadow in the dark.
"I'm done, Master," Kaelen said, gasping for air.
"You're done when the blade says you're done," Deyric said. He walked into the ring and picked up a sword. "You stood your ground today, boy. You made your mercy stand up."
"They still whispered."
"Let them whisper," Deyric dropped into a stance. "Whispers are for the seats. Truth is in the sand. Again."
Kaelen looked at the old man. He looked at the sword. The weight felt different now. Not lighter. Just… necessary.
"Again," Kaelen said.
Wood cracked against wood, ringing out into the night. A rhythm forged in the dark.