No goodbye

As soon as the door slammed behind Isolde, I stayed right where I was—straddling the tangled blankets, shirt half-on, sweat cooling on my chest, her scent still lingering like trouble.

My pulse thundered, and it wasn't from embarrassment or anger this time.

"Fuck," I muttered, staring at the ceiling, willing myself to calm down. No luck.

Demon blood came with its curses. Nobody at court talked about it, of course, but I'd learned years ago, the hard way, that some women came out of the demon half of the family tree with more than fangs or claws.

Sometimes, you got a dick too. Sometimes, you got hard when you shouldn't.

Sometimes, your body didn't give a damn about etiquette or shame, especially when your worst enemy ended up flat on her back beneath you, lips parted, skin flushed, glaring up at you like she hated you more than anything.

I ran a hand through my hair, scowling. "No. Absolutely not." I refused to even think about the why, or about Isolde at all—about the way her body felt under my hands, the panic in her eyes, the little gasp she made when I pinned her.

That was dangerous. That was humiliating. I was not going to be another drooling idiot for a princess.

I yanked my shirt down, trying to ignore the ache in my trousers, and finished packing the last of my things.

Swords. A battered copy of the history book Mistress Alder gave me. A lucky stone I'd found the first week I arrived.

I moved fast, ruthless, throwing everything into my trunk and cinching the straps until my arms hurt. If I kept moving, maybe I'd forget how fucking hard I was—or why.

For the rest of the night, I didn't let myself think. Not about the capital, not about leaving, and especially not about Isolde.

I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling, hands behind my head, refusing to touch myself, refusing to let the memory of her body and that perfect, infuriating glare drive me any crazier.

Eventually, sleep came—fitful, restless, filled with heat and shadow.

---

The next morning, the sun hadn't even finished clawing its way over the horizon when I got up.

I dressed in my oldest, toughest clothes soft linen shirt, black trousers, boots with the worn heel and slung my sword across my back.

My trunk was heavy but manageable. I carried it one-handed down the silent corridor, the castle still mostly asleep. My footsteps echoed, steady and sharp, marking the end of one life and the start of another.

I thought, briefly, about stopping by the royal wing. About finding Isolde and saying… something.

Goodbye, maybe. Or nothing at all. It was stupid to want closure, but the emptiness in my chest was sharper than I expected.

Did she care? Was she glad I was leaving? I could guess, but I didn't want to know.

By the time I reached the main hall, Sir Aldric and three other knights were already waiting, all gleaming in the early morning light, their armor polished, their faces serious.

Aldric looked me over, nodded with that practiced military detachment, and gestured for me to follow.

"Ready?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Always," I said, squaring my shoulders.

He grinned. "Good. We have a long road ahead. And I'm eager to see if your reputation lives up to reality."

I gave him a half-smirk. "Hope you don't get disappointed, sir."

One of the other knights—a woman with a scarred lip—gave a low chuckle. "Cocky. I like her."

I shrugged, shifting the trunk, and didn't bother correcting her. People saw what they wanted: a girl, a half-demon, a brawler with a sword.

They didn't see what was under my skin, or what it cost me to keep my head high. I was used to being misread.

We loaded my things into the carriage ostentatious, velvet seats, the capital's sigil on the door and set off while the city was still wrapped in mist.

I didn't look back at the castle. I told myself it was because I was strong, because the future was finally here. Not because I didn't trust myself not to regret it.

The journey was a blur of dust and trees, of quiet mornings and loud, sprawling villages, of inns where people stared too long but said nothing when they saw the crest on our carriage.

I spent most of the trip reading or sparring with the knights at every stop, pushing myself harder, trying to forget.

My body was restless, still buzzing with leftover heat from last night, but I drowned it in exhaustion and sweat.

Aldric kept his word—he pushed me. Every day, every stop, every new town. Sword drills, magic exercises, lectures on strategy and court etiquette.

He wasn't cruel, but he wasn't soft either. He wanted to see what I was made of, what all the stories meant.

He got his answer the third night out, when a couple of drunken mercenaries tried to pick a fight with us in a tavern.

I ended it before Aldric even got out of his chair. I pinned the biggest one with a knee to his chest and a blade at his throat, my red fire dancing along the edge. The other knights cheered, and even Aldric cracked a rare, approving smile.

After that, they treated me less like cargo and more like a comrade. It was a strange, lonely relief.

As the days passed, the ache in my body faded, but the memory of Isolde did not. Every quiet moment, I found myself replaying that last evening, over and over—the flash of her eyes, the heat of her skin under my hands, the way my own body betrayed me.

It was humiliating. It was infuriating. But it was honest. And if I'd learned anything in this life, it was that honesty hurt the most.

I kept moving. I kept fighting. I got stronger, meaner, faster. The road to the capital was a crucible, and I was determined to come out the other side sharper than before.

The final day, the air changed—sharper, cleaner, charged with the strange, nervous excitement that only comes with arrival.

The city rose in the distance, towers and banners, marble spires gleaming in the afternoon sun. The carriage passed through the gates, the guards barely glancing at us once they saw Aldric's colors.

The capital was alive: streets bustling, hawkers shouting, noblewomen sweeping by in silks, mercenaries showing off their scars. I watched it all with a mixture of hunger and wariness, one hand on my sword.

We wound our way through wide avenues, past fountains and monuments, up the long hill to the fortress at the city's heart—the headquarters of the Capital Knights.

The carriage stopped in the shadow of the main keep, its walls dark stone, its banners snapping in the breeze.

Aldric stepped out first, then turned to me. "Welcome home, Lyra," he said. "From now on, you're one of us."

I got out, boots crunching on gravel, the sun hot on my back, my heart pounding.

A knight at the door, a big man with salt-and-pepper hair and arms like tree trunks, nodded as we approached. His gaze was shrewd, but not unkind.

"You must be the famous Skyblade," he rumbled.

I set my jaw, refusing to show nerves. "That's me."

He smiled, just a little. "Good. We've been needing some new blood."