**Chapter 11 – The Prince's Blade**
The next day began without sunlight.
Heavy gray clouds blanketed the sky, smothering the palace in shadow. Rain hadn't fallen, but the air felt thick with promise — like something was about to break.
Amaris dressed in silence.
The maids, sensing the shift in her, no longer asked questions. They avoided her eyes. They bowed more deeply than before. As if something about her presence had changed overnight.
It had.
She didn't feel sharp. She felt brittle. But she remembered the prince's words.
*Let them chase something that can bite back.*
She wasn't ready to bite yet. But maybe she could learn to grow fangs.
—
The west courtyard was hidden behind ivy walls and ancient columns. A place meant for war practice, not royal leisure. When she arrived, the stone ground was wet from the morning dew. Her boots slipped once on the moss but she didn't fall.
He was already there.
The prince stood beneath one of the archways, dressed in dark training leathers, two wooden practice swords at his side.
"You're late," he said, not unkindly.
"I wasn't told the time."
"You should've known."
She arched a brow. "Is this how you teach? With riddles and bruises?"
He tossed her one of the wooden blades. It landed in her hands, heavier than it looked.
"Yes," he replied simply.
She nearly dropped it.
"Grip the hilt like your life depends on it," he said, stepping toward her. "Because one day, it will."
She adjusted. Awkwardly.
He moved behind her and adjusted her shoulders, her stance. His hands were rough, but sure. She hated how steadying his presence felt.
"Again," he said.
She raised the sword.
He struck.
Not hard—but fast.
Their wooden blades clashed, and her arms trembled.
"Don't flinch."
"You didn't warn me!"
"I won't warn you in battle either."
They repeated the motion again. And again.
Each time, she blocked slower. Less precise. But she refused to quit.
By the fiftieth strike, her shoulders burned. Sweat stung her eyes. Her breath came in uneven gasps.
Still, she stood.
Still, she tried.
The prince finally stepped back. "Enough."
She nearly collapsed from relief. Her legs were shaking.
But she kept her chin high.
He looked at her for a long moment.
"Better," he said.
The word hit like thunder. She hated how it made something in her chest lift.
Pride? From *him?*
No. She told herself she didn't care. But a part of her did.
And that part was starting to grow louder.
—
Later that night, she returned to her chamber.
The fire had been lit already. The bed turned down. Warm water sat in a copper basin.
But something felt… wrong.
She paused in the doorway. The air was too still.
It wasn't cold from the weather. It was *unnatural*.
She stepped inside slowly. The crackle of the fire didn't warm her.
Then she saw it.
Scratched into the surface of her mirror—just faint enough to miss at a glance—was a symbol.
Jagged.
Familiar.
The same one that had been carved into the flesh of the assassin from the forest ambush.
Her blood turned to ice.
She backed away from the mirror slowly. "Guards—"
The door burst open before she could finish.
The prince strode in, two guards behind him, sword drawn.
He saw the mirror instantly.
His eyes darkened.
He crossed the room in three strides and stood between her and the glass, inspecting the mark.
"Did anyone come in here?" he demanded.
"No," she said, her voice shaking. "I don't think so. I—I locked the door—"
He turned to the guard. "Seal this room. No one enters unless I say so. Not even the steward."
"Yes, Your Highness!"
The prince grabbed her gently by the wrist and pulled her toward the hallway.
"You're not sleeping here tonight."
She resisted. "What is that mark? Tell me!"
He didn't answer until they were out of the room and halfway down the corridor.
Then he stopped. Faced her.
"It's a summoning rune," he said. "Dark magic. Blood-based. And very old."
"Summoning what?"
He looked at her, expression unreadable. "Not what. *Who.*"
Her stomach twisted. "Someone sent that assassin. And now they're leaving symbols on my mirror?"
He nodded grimly. "Which means they're not afraid of us anymore. And worse… they're already inside the palace."
They walked in silence after that.
Until Amaris finally whispered, "What do they want from me?"
He stopped again. Looked at her. Really looked.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I swear on the crown—whoever it is, they'll regret choosing you."
His voice dropped to a whisper only she could hear:
"Because you are mine now. And I protect what's mine."
—
He didn't return her to her chamber.
Instead, he brought her to one of the hidden towers.
A place few knew existed.
The stairs spiraled upward endlessly. At the top, a steel door opened to a small room lit with enchanted lanterns. There were books. Maps. And swords.
Training swords.
Daggers.
Armor.
The room of a prince preparing for war.
He handed her a warm cloak and gestured to the floor.
"You'll sleep here tonight. Tomorrow, your real training begins."
She looked around.
"What kind of training?"
He met her eyes.
"The kind that makes queens into weapons."