The morning's torture was not the archery lesson ahead, but the elaborate siege upon my hair.
"I fail to see what strategic advantage a braided labyrinth provides against a moving target," I insisted, my voice tight with frustration as another servant deftly wove a pearl-studded pin into the intricate crown of plaits.
"My skill lies in my arm, not my scalp."
My protests were gentle breezes against the stone wall of their devotion.
The ladies-in-waiting clucked and cooed, their touches tender, their love for me as genuine and smothering as summer wool. They saw a princess to be adorned, a jewel to be polished for the court's admiring gaze. I saw a warrior in need of calluses, not ribbons. Yet, to shove away their earnest hands felt like a cruelty I could not commit.
So, I sat, a compliant doll, as they sculpted me into a vision of delicate, fashionable grace, everything I was determined not to be.
When I arrived at the training ground, the crisp air smelled of damp earth and anticipation. But the figure waiting for me was not the new, stern weapons-master I had been promised.
It was Xane.
He stood alone in the center of the ring, a stark silhouette against the grey morning. Our eyes met. Mine narrowed in immediate suspicion; his remained fathomless, a calm, dark sea. A swift glance confirmed it, we were utterly alone. No servants, no guards, no teacher.
"May I ask what is happening here?" My voice cut through the quiet, sharper than I intended. I stepped forward, the specially tailored training leathers—supple, form-fitting, yet undeniably elegant—whispering with my movement.
His gaze traveled over me with a deliberate, slow assessment that felt more intrusive than any stare. From my impractical, pearl-pinned hair, down the fitted bodice, to my boots. Then, a smile touched his lips—a slow, unfurling thing that held no warmth.
"My dearest little sister," he drawled, the endearment dripping with a honeyed mockery that made the fine hairs on my neck rise.
He closed the distance between us in a few silent strides, stopping only when the polished toe of his boot met mine. His proximity was a sudden, shocking warmth in the cool air. He leaned in, his breath a ghost of heat against the shell of my ear, his voice a velvet-wrapped threat.
"Dressed like this for the training ground?" he murmured, the words for me alone. "Tell me, Cia… who exactly are you here to impress?"
A hot wave of indignation crashed over me. I stumbled back, putting two full paces between us, my brows furrowed deep.
"And why do you care, big brother?" I shot back, the title laced with venom. I held his dark, challenging gaze. "Your concern should lie with the throne now, not with my choice of attire."
Spinning on my heel, I marched toward the weapon shed, my familiarity with the grounds a small, defiant comfort. By the time I returned, bow in hand, he was gone, vanished as silently as he had appeared.
The master archer arrived much later, flustered and full of apologies, citing a miscommunicated time. I merely nodded, my mind elsewhere, my ear still burning.
I did not mind the delay. My goal was singular: to learn everything. To become a weapon polished sharper than any crown. But as I nocked my first arrow, I felt a new, unsettling truth take root.
The more knowledge I gained, the more power I craved. And the more he watched me with those possessive, mocking eyes, the more I understood that my greatest challenge would not be mastering the bow.
It would be mastering the strange, treacherous fire his attention lit within me—a greed not just for a throne, but for a victory over him.