Eryx
The room feels smaller every hour. I walk from the window to the door, from the door to the bed, from the bed back to the window in a pattern I have worn into my mind if not the floor. Six steps each direction. Twelve steps total before I start over. The walls press in even though they are farther apart than any dungeon cell. My wolf paces inside me in the same restless rhythm, back and forth, trapped under skin the way I am trapped under guard.
Two royal guards stand outside my door. I can hear them through the wood when the corridor is quiet enough. They do not talk much but when they do I catch pieces of it, words that drift through the gap under the door like smoke. Most of it is boring, complaints about shift rotations, stories about village girls they want to visit on their next leave. But an hour ago I heard something different.
"Should have let the first one finish it," one guard said. His voice was low, meant to stay private, but wolves hear what humans cannot.
"Council would reward us for it," the other answered. "King would not even know until morning."
"He would know."
"Maybe. But would he care enough to punish us? Man is distracted. Distracted kings make mistakes."
They laughed after that, quiet and mean, the kind of laugh that sits in your stomach wrong. Then they went silent again and I have been pacing ever since because I cannot stay in this room anymore. I cannot sit here waiting for someone to decide that killing me is worth whatever risk comes with it.
The window does not open wide enough for me to fit through. I already checked. The bars are decorative but they are still iron, still bolted deep into stone. The door is locked from outside. I tested it twice, slow and quiet, just enough pressure to feel the mechanism catch. It is a simple lock, the kind meant to keep honest people honest rather than actually stop anyone determined.
I stop pacing and look at the dinner tray someone brought an hour ago. Cold soup, bread, cheese, an apple. I ate most of it because I learned a long time ago never to waste food when you can get it. But I kept the spoon, a plain bent thing made of cheap metal, thin enough to flex. I pick it up now and turn it over in my hands, testing the weight, the angle of the handle.
Simple locks only need simple tools.
I kneel by the door and slide the spoon handle into the gap between the door and frame, feeling for the mechanism inside. It takes me three tries to find the right angle. The metal scrapes softly against the lock plate. I freeze and listen. The guards outside are still talking, their voices too low for me to make out words but loud enough to cover the small sounds I am making.
The lock clicks. It is not loud but it feels loud in the silence of the room. I wait, barely breathing, my hand still on the spoon. Nobody comes. Nobody shouts. I count to thirty and then I pull the door open just wide enough to see through.
The guards are at the far end of the corridor, both facing away from my door. One is pointing at something on the wall, some tapestry or decoration I cannot see from this angle. The other is nodding. Neither of them is looking back.
I slip out and close the door behind me without letting it click. Then I move the opposite direction down the corridor, keeping my steps light, staying close to the wall where shadows fall thickest. I pass two more doors, both closed. A window on the right looks out over the courtyard below. I can see the training yard from here, empty and dark under moonlight.
That is where I am going.
The stairs are tricky because stone echoes but I go slow, testing each step before I put my weight on it, and I make it down to the ground level without anyone calling out. The corridor here opens into a wider hall with doors on both sides. I know from watching through my window which door leads to the courtyard. I head for it, moving faster now because the longer I am out here the more likely someone sees me.
The door is unlocked. I push it open and step outside into cold night air that smells like frost and pine. The courtyard is empty. No guards on patrol. No servants crossing between buildings. Just me and the moon and the training yard stretched out in front of me with its practice dummies standing in rows like silent witnesses.
I walk to the center of the yard and stop. My breath makes clouds in the air. I can feel my wolf settle slightly now that I am outside, now that there is space around me instead of walls. This is better. This is closer to what I need.
"Going somewhere?"
The voice comes from behind me and I spin around fast, dropping into a fighting stance before I can think about it. Caelan steps out of the shadows near the far wall, still dressed in his training clothes, dark and practical, nothing royal about him right now except the way he carries himself like he owns the ground he stands on.
"You followed me," I say.
"I could not sleep," he says, walking closer. "I saw you leave your room from my window. Thought I should see where you were going before you got yourself killed."
"Your guards want to kill me while you sleep," I say. "Heard them talking about it through the door."
His jaw tightens. He does not look surprised exactly, more like he suspected something like this but did not want it confirmed. "I will handle them," he says.
"Will you." I cross my arms. "Or will you move me to another room with another set of guards who want the same thing."
"What do you want me to do," he asks, his voice going hard. "I cannot watch you every moment. I cannot stand outside your door all night to make sure nobody tries anything. I have a kingdom to run."
"I do not need you to watch me," I say. "I need to be able to defend myself. You took my weapons when you arrested me. You locked me in a cell and then moved me to a prettier cell but it is still a cage. If someone comes for me again I need to be able to fight back."
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he walks to the weapons rack near the training dummies and picks up two wooden practice swords, the kind made from solid oak that hit hard enough to bruise but not kill. He walks back and tosses one to me.
I catch it without thinking. The weight is good, balanced, familiar in a way that makes my muscles remember things my mind tried to forget.
"Show me what you can do," Caelan says, raising his own sword into a guard position.
I smile. This is not what I expected but it is better. "You sure about this?" I ask.
"Stop talking," he says, "and fight."
I move first because waiting means losing. I come in low and fast, aiming for his left side where his guard sits slightly open. He blocks it clean, wood cracking against wood loud enough to echo off the courtyard walls. I spin and come back from the other direction. He blocks that too.
We move around each other in the empty yard, our swords meeting in quick sharp bursts, neither of us giving ground. Caelan fights the way I expected him to fight, clean and precise, every move practiced a thousand times until it became instinct. He keeps his guard up, protects his core, watches my feet to predict where I am going next.
I fight the way I have always fought. Wild and dirty and unpredictable. I fake high and go low. I use my shoulder to shove when he gets too close. I sweep his legs and when he jumps back I am already swinging for his ribs.
He grunts when the sword connects, not hard enough to break anything but hard enough to feel tomorrow. "That was cheap," he says, breathing harder now.
"That was smart," I correct him, circling. "Fighting fair only matters when both sides care about rules."
He comes at me then, faster than before, and I barely get my sword up in time to catch his. The force of it rattles down my arms. He presses forward, using his weight advantage, forcing me back three steps before I duck under his guard and roll to the side.
We are both sweating now despite the cold. My heart pounds in my chest. My wolf is awake and alert, watching Caelan with the kind of focus that comes before something important. This is not just sparring. This is something else, something sharper, the air between us charged with more than just the fight.