Easy fight

Lara accepted the practice sword from one of the recruits with an easy, lopsided grin, feeling the weight settle into her palm.

It wasn't her favorite blade: too light, too balanced for the average soldier but it would do.

Besides, the real edge wasn't in the steel today; it was in the eyes watching from every corner of the training yard.

Vaelen stood a few paces away, rolling his own wooden sword between his fingers. His face was composed pleasantly determined, almost apologetic but there was a nervous energy in the set of his shoulders.

He was dressed for court, not combat, his navy tunic impeccable and far too clean for a proper brawl.

Lara took a moment to roll her neck, stretching muscles that were loose from the earlier matches.

The air was bright with sunlight and sweat, and she could hear the excited whispers of soldiers and onlookers as they gathered to watch.

He's brave, I'll give him that, she thought, sizing Vaelen up with a professional eye. He held the sword correctly, didn't flinch at the weight.

Not a stranger to lessons, then. But his grip was too tight knuckles white, betraying nerves.

She stepped forward, giving the crowd a lazy wave. "Alright, Prince. We keep it clean. No magic. First to three touches, or until you decide you've had enough."

She smirked, twirling her sword with a flick of her wrist. "I promise not to break you. Much."

Vaelen managed a crooked smile, bowing with exaggerated formality. "I'll try to provide a challenge worthy of your reputation, Lara."

There was a ripple of laughter from the soldiers. Even Sarisa, seated at the edge of the yard, looked amused—her lips fighting a smile, golden tattoos aglow in the sun.

The Captain of the Guard clapped her hands, signaling the start. "Begin!"

Lara didn't rush. She circled, feet light on the packed earth, letting Vaelen take the initiative.

He moved cautiously, blade up, eyes locked to hers. She feinted left, testing his reaction. He tracked her, quick enough. Good.

They traded a few blows—measured, almost gentle. Lara's sword tapped against Vaelen's, the wooden edges meeting with satisfying clacks.

He was better than she'd expected, holding his ground and keeping his guard high. But he was too careful, too textbook.

Lara grinned, slipping past his guard with a swift, cheeky touch to his shoulder. "Point one, me."

Vaelen laughed, a bit breathless, and reset his stance. "You could at least pretend to break a sweat."

She obliged by feinting a little harder on the next pass, sweeping his sword aside and tapping his ribs. "Two."

He raised his brows, shrugging off the touch with a playful roll of his shoulders. "You make it look easy."

Lara winked. "That's because it is. But let's see what you've got."

This time, Vaelen came at her in earnest, putting some real force into his attack. He moved with surprising speed, pushing her back a step—two, even—before she twisted and spun out of reach.

He managed a glancing strike to her thigh. The crowd cheered; even Lara inclined her head in approval.

"Nice," she said, lips quirking. "Didn't expect that."

Vaelen grinned, teeth flashing. "I learn quickly."

They circled again, swords weaving, footsteps echoing on the stone. Lara let him drive the pace, meeting every swing with a block or a dodge, holding back her true strength.

Her arms remembered every battle, every sparring match, every night spent training until her knuckles bled.

Vaelen, for all his earnestness, was still playing at being a swordsman. He'd never fought for his life—not truly.

But Lara respected the way he stood his ground. He wasn't reckless; he didn't let his pride run away with him. She almost admired his stubbornness. Almost.

With a quick feint, Lara slipped past his guard again, bringing her blade up to his throat in one smooth, practiced motion. She stopped an inch short, holding the pose as the crowd erupted into applause.

"Three," she said, stepping back and lowering her sword. "Well fought, Prince. You've got guts."

Vaelen was breathing hard but smiling, sweat beading at his brow. "And you are exactly as terrifying as everyone says."

Lara clapped him on the shoulder. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

They both grinned, breathless and flushed, as the crowd of soldiers broke into applause and a chorus of good-natured jibes.

"Another round?" Vaelen asked, surprising her. "No points, just… for fun?"

Lara shrugged, swinging her sword up. "If you're not tired of losing, I'm happy to oblige."

He nodded, resetting his stance, and this time came at her with more creativity—a risky lunge, a low feint, trying to get past her defenses.

Lara played along, letting the match stretch, giving him small victories—a touch to her hip, a block that sent her stumbling back, a parry that made her laugh out loud.

She was about to call the match, bring it to a friendly close, when a strange sensation prickled at the base of her spine.

It was cold, electric a shudder up her arm, a sharp ache behind her eyes. For a split second, her grip loosened on the sword. She blinked, trying to clear her vision.

Vaelen, sensing an opening, stepped in with a textbook thrust. Lara should have sidestepped easily. Instead, her limbs felt sluggish, her mind fuzzy.

Suddenly—without intending to—she lashed out.

Her sword arced in a sharp, vicious swing, much too fast, much too hard. She felt her muscles tighten, a burst of unnatural force behind the blow.

Vaelen's eyes widened—he tried to parry, but she was already inside his guard.

The practice blade struck his upper arm with a force that would have shattered bone if it were steel. Vaelen cried out, stumbling backward, clutching his shoulder.

Time slowed. Lara staggered, horror dawning on her face. She'd lost control—her own body moved as if someone else pulled the strings.

She dropped the sword, hands trembling, heart pounding as the crowd's cheers died in an instant.

Vaelen's face twisted in pain. Blood was already seeping through the cloth at his sleeve.

The yard was utterly silent—every soldier frozen, every eye locked on her.

Lara stepped forward, her voice hoarse. "Vaelen—I didn't—"

But inside her mind, something cold and foreign moved—a whisper of magic, a shadow in the back of her skull.

She couldn't stop her hand as it reached for her sword again.

Vaelen tried to step away, fear in his golden eyes.

Lara struggled, fighting to regain control, but her arm moved on its own.

And then—

The tip of her blade cut through the fabric of his tunic, drawing a thin line of blood before Lara finally dropped the sword, wrenching herself backward as if from a nightmare.

Gasps and shouts rose around them. The Captain surged forward. Sarisa's voice cut through the confusion, sharp and commanding.

But all Lara could see was Vaelen—hurt, staring at her in disbelief and pain and the horror of knowing she'd just done the unthinkable.