6 years later

Years pass differently when you're training for war.

You stop measuring time in birthdays or seasons, and start marking it in bruises, in the length of scars, in the nights you collapse so deep into sleep that even nightmares can't find you.

I didn't realize how much I'd changed until I caught myself in the reflection of the training hall's polished shields one morning and barely recognized the woman staring back.

I'd left the palace as a half-wild, awkward fifteen-year-old with a chip on her shoulder and more rage than sense.

I was twenty-one now—full-grown, all edges and muscle, taller than most men in the compound, even a little taller than Malvoria herself.

My shoulders were broader, my arms thick with strength. My hair, a wild tangle of red and white, fell in loose waves almost to my shoulders, often pulled back in a leather cord for sparring.

Ink wound up both arms—snarling beasts and burning flame, names of the fallen, runes for luck and fury. There was a fresh one on my neck, a dragon's eye, added on the night I finally bested Malvoria in an official match.

Two silver rings glinted on my left hand the right of victory, given only to those who survived the commander's most brutal gauntlets. Most knights wore one. Only a handful of us had two.

But the biggest change, by far, was the magic. My red fire, once wild and unpredictable, had grown into something terrifying, something that made even the oldest captains flinch when I let it flare.

It had grown too powerful for daily use—Malvoria had started barring it from training entirely. "You'll scorch the damn building down," she'd grumbled. "Learn to fight with your fists, not just your flames."

So, fists it was.

The sun was burning hot and high in the training yard, not a single cloud in the sky, and the air shimmered with dust and anticipation.

The compound was all stone and sweat and banners new faces arrived every year, and most of them didn't last a month. Only the strongest stuck around. Only the strongest survived Malvoria.

She stood across from me now, her arms crossed over her broad chest, a sly smile curving her lips.

She looked the same as always brown skin gleaming, red eyes sharp and merciless, hair pulled back in a thick braid that whipped as she moved. She was older, yes, but time had only carved her sharper.

We didn't need swords anymore. No shields, no armor. Just our bodies and whatever willpower we could scrape together.

"You ready, Skyblade?" she taunted, rolling her shoulders, bouncing on her heels.

I cracked my knuckles, grinned. "You're the one who should be worried."

She lunged first, a blur of muscle and speed, but I'd seen it a hundred times. I ducked, twisted, caught her around the waist and slammed her onto the mat with a satisfying thud.

She barked a laugh, rolled out, and swept my legs—except I was faster, already springing to my feet and closing in.

It was a brutal dance, our sparring. I knew every trick she'd ever taught me, and she knew exactly how to push me.

She was stronger, heavier, but I was quicker, and these days, just a bit meaner. My world shrank to the smell of sweat, the sting of old bruises, the rasp of our breath.

Her elbow grazed my jaw. I feinted, blocked, drove my shoulder into her ribs. The watching recruits cheered, their voices a blur.

Malvoria started to lose. That didn't happen often, and never without a fight. She grinned, eyes glinting, and—cheater—she grabbed a handful of gravel from the edge of the mat and flung it in my face. I cursed, stumbling back, blinking dust out of my eyes.

"Foul!" I shouted, laughing despite the sting.

She roared with laughter, baring her fangs. "You think the enemy plays fair?"

I wiped my eyes, still grinning. "You're lucky I'm not allowed to use magic, old woman."

She feigned shock. "Old? You want to do another hundred push-ups, pup?"

I shook my head, mock-bowing. "Mercy, Commander."

She clapped me on the shoulder, almost knocking me off balance. "End of training for today, Skyblade. Go wash up. You smell like a goat."

It was a ritual, this banter, and I loved it as much as I hated it. Malvoria was the only one I'd ever call mentor. She'd broken me, remade me, and I'd paid for every inch of respect with sweat, blood, and fire.

But today, she didn't let me slink away to the baths. She jerked her chin toward the main hall. "Get moving. Boss wants us in the office."

I frowned. It wasn't often that both of us were called together. Usually, if someone from the chain of command wanted a word, it was bad news.

We walked side by side through the compound, boots thumping on stone, every head turning as we passed. I ignored the whispers, the wary nods from the new recruits. I had earned my place here, a hundred times over.

Malvoria didn't speak as we climbed the stairs, but I could feel her watching me, measuring something. When we reached the commander's office, she rapped twice on the door, then pushed inside.

The office was all dark wood and faded banners, the air thick with the scent of ink and old parchment.

The boss sat behind a desk cluttered with maps and reports—a tall, grizzled man with pale hair and eyes like frost. He didn't smile as we entered, but he nodded, brisk and businesslike.

"At ease," he said. "Both of you."

We stood in front of the desk, Malvoria's hands clasped behind her back, me a pace to her right. The boss studied us for a long moment, then slid a sealed letter across the wood.

"Message from the palace," he said. "For you, Lyra."

I took it, broke the wax. The script was unmistakable—formal, sweeping, the hand of the royal steward. I skimmed it quickly, brow furrowing.

The boss cleared his throat. "The king needs you, Lyra."

I blinked, pulse suddenly quickening. "Needs me? For what?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he steepled his fingers, gazing at me with an unreadable expression.

"You've proven yourself here. You survived Malvoria's training. You've become one of our best. But this is different. This is a direct request from the throne. He wants someone loyal, dangerous, hard to intimidate."

Malvoria glanced at me, her red eyes narrowed. "It's about the princess, isn't it?"

The boss nodded. "Princess Isolde. The king wants you to return to the palace as her bodyguard."

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to stop. The words echoed in the dimness, bouncing around my skull.

I hadn't heard her name in years—had forced myself not to think about her, not to remember the last night, the accident, the way my heart had slammed against my ribs when I'd left. Isolde.

The Ice Princess. I'd spent years trying to forget her.

And now, just like that, the past had come to claim me.

The boss leaned forward, voice lowering. "He wants you to become the bodyguard of Princess Isolde."

The room was silent but for the faint crackle of the hearth. Malvoria watched me, her face unreadable, but I saw the flicker of something in her eyes—a challenge, a warning, maybe even a hint of pity.

I stood there, the letter trembling slightly in my hand, all my hard-won calm threatening to shatter. I didn't know what I felt. Relief? Dread? Excitement? I only knew that everything was about to change again.

For better or for worse, I was going back.