**Chapter 12 – Fire Beneath the Skin**
The morning came with thunder.
A storm had broken overnight, drenching the palace in rain. Lightning cracked across the sky like a god splitting the clouds open. The wind howled through the cracks in the tower, rattling windows, snuffing candles.
Amaris didn't flinch.
She had not slept.
The prince had brought her food the night before — warm bread, a pot of broth — but she hadn't touched it. Her mind had been too loud. The symbol in the mirror haunted her. The weight of the sword in her hand. The way her own body ached after just one day of training.
She was not built for this life.
But she would reshape herself for it.
When the prince entered at dawn, she was already standing. Cloaked. Braided hair. Hands steady.
He noticed. Said nothing.
Just handed her a dagger.
"This will feel light," he said. "But it can kill."
She took it.
Held it.
Felt the steel press against her palm.
"I've never held a real weapon before," she admitted.
He stepped behind her. Adjusted her stance again.
"You have now."
—
Training began with blade work.
He showed her how to slash low, how to spin and recover, how to use her opponent's weight against them. She was clumsy at first — always one step too slow, always bracing too hard.
But her determination was ruthless.
Each time she fell, she got up faster.
Each time she bled, she wiped it away without a sound.
"Don't treat the blade like a gift," he snapped once. "It's a threat. The sooner you become one, the sooner they'll stop hunting you."
The prince pushed her harder than before. Not cruelly. Precisely. As if he knew the strength buried in her bones even she had not uncovered yet.
By the second hour, her arms burned.
By the third, she could disarm him once in every five strikes.
He circled her after one round, wooden sword dragging lightly across the floor. "You're learning."
"I'm surviving."
"Same thing in this palace."
She swung again. Harder. This time he had to block with two hands.
Something flickered across his face. Not surprise. Approval.
"Again," he commanded.
She obeyed.
Not because she was his bride.
Because she was becoming something else.
—
By midday, she collapsed to her knees, breath ragged. Rain lashed the tower windows. Her hair clung to her face. Her hands were raw.
The prince knelt in front of her.
"You hate me for this," he said.
"No," she rasped.
"Then what?"
"I hate that I need this."
He studied her face for a long time.
Then said, "Good. Hate is a sharper blade than fear."
She let out a broken laugh.
"Then I must be armed to the teeth."
He smirked. Just a little. But it softened fast.
"This world isn't fair to queens who can't fight," he said quietly. "So fight."
She looked up at him then.
Not as a bride.
Not as prey.
But as someone rising.
And something inside her finally whispered back:
*I'm not afraid of him anymore.*
—
That night, as the storm raged on, she returned to her tower chamber alone.
The guards stationed outside bowed to her — not out of duty, but something closer to respect.
Inside, she peeled off her training leathers, cleaned her wounds, stared into the mirror.
The servants had replaced it.
No mark.
No scratches.
Just her reflection.
But something *was* different.
Her eyes.
They were no longer filled with confusion.
Now, they looked back at her like a challenge.
Like a queen studying the battlefield.
She took a deep breath, stepped back, and whispered, "I'm still standing."
—
She turned away from the mirror and toward her window.
In the distance, torches moved through the lower palace.
A rider had just returned.
A message.
She watched the prince step out from the northern tower and receive a scroll.
He didn't open it at first.
He just stared at the seal.
Red wax.
Black ink.
When he finally read it, his entire body stilled.
Not from fear.
From realization.
Whatever was coming — it had already crossed the border.
It had a name.
And it was heading straight for her.
She stepped back from the window, pulse racing.
A moment later, a knock.
Not a guard's knock. A softer one.
Cautious. Deliberate.
She opened the door herself.
The prince stood there, rain still dripping from his cloak.
"We need to talk," he said.
"About what?"
He handed her the scroll.
She read it.
Her stomach turned to stone.
**"The blood moon rises in six nights. The Offering must not survive it."**
She looked up at him.
"What am I?"
His jaw was tight.
"You're more than a bride," he said. "You're a key. And someone plans to use you… or destroy you trying."
And just like that, everything shifted.
Because she was no longer just preparing to fight.
She was preparing to run.