Morning light dripped through the high, arched windows of Ashspire Hall, gilding the air with gold. I had just pulled my hair into a quick braid when a soft knock rattled the door.
"Come in," I called, expecting Samora.
Instead, Darian stepped inside, casual in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, his hair damp like he'd just come from the baths. A faint grin curved his lips.
"Good. You're up. I was starting to think you'd sleep through the whole morning."
I blinked. "You were… coming to wake me up?"
"Not exactly," he said, leaning against the door frame with that infuriating ease. "I thought we could walk the training grounds before everyone else claims them. I want to see if your form's improved." His tone carried more play than judgment, but I still felt my cheeks warm.
"You just want to show off," I said, slipping on my boots.
"Guilty," he admitted. "But also… maybe I just wanted an excuse to steal some time with you before the rest of your entourage claims you."
I rolled my eyes but didn't say no.
We crossed the inner courtyard together, Darian's stride matching mine, the crisp scent of morning carrying hints of pine and smoke. When we reached the practice arena, the clang of weapons and voices drifted from a corner where my friends had already gathered.
Samora spotted us first. Her brows lifted slightly, and then she smirked. "Well, well. And here I thought you'd be late, Elena."
Fynn looked up from tightening the strap on his gauntlet. His gaze flicked between me and Darian, cool and assessing, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Kadyn gave a short nod, but I caught the way he subtly shifted closer to Samora, like he was bracing for something.
"Morning," Darian said easily, as if he'd walked into this circle a hundred times before. "You must be the infamous friends."
"Infamous?" Samora repeated, one brow arching.
Darian grinned. "I've heard… stories."
The conversation flowed lightly after that—on the surface, anyway. He asked Fynn about the best sparring instructors in Ashspire, complimented Samora on her bow work, and even got Kadyn to laugh once. But beneath it, there was a current I couldn't quite name. My friends seemed to measure every word he spoke, as if weighing the shape of him against something unseen.
After a while, Darian leaned closer to me, his voice low enough that the others couldn't hear. "You know, you could skip training for one morning. I could show you the glass gardens—most people don't even know they exist."
It sounded harmless, tempting even, but I caught the subtle tightening of Fynn's jaw when he overheard.
"Maybe another day," I said lightly. "I've got enough to prove here first."
Darian only smiled, like he could wait forever.
I told myself there was nothing wrong with letting him linger at my side as the day stretched on. But in the quiet moments—when I caught my friends exchanging glances behind my back—I couldn't help but wonder what it was they saw that I didn't.
By midday, the sun had burned the last of the cool air from the courtyard, and my arms already ached from the morning's drills. Samora was relentless—circling me like a hawk, correcting my stance with sharp taps to my shoulders, my elbows.
"Again," she ordered, and I swung.
"Better," she said, but didn't let up.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Darian leaning against the railing near the weapons rack. He wasn't watching in that smug, appraising way some of the others did—more like he was rooting for me, his gaze steady and warm.
Samora caught him there and smirked. "You planning to stand there all day, or are you going to fetch her some water?"
Darian's grin was easy. "On it." He crossed to the barrels, filled a cup, and brought it to me between drills. "Here," he said, voice low enough that it felt private. "Pace yourself. She'll work you into the ground if you let her."
I couldn't help a breathless laugh. "That's the point."
"Maybe," he said, "but you don't have to bleed for every lesson."
Samora barked at me to reset my guard, but her tone was almost approving. Darian stayed nearby, not interfering, just there—offering the occasional word of encouragement when I nailed a combination or managed to hold my ground against her flurry of strikes.
By the time, Samora called for a break, I was drenched in sweat and more than a little dizzy. Samora clapped me on the shoulder. "Not bad. You'll live through the week."
"High praise," I said, grinning.
Darian handed me another drink, his expression light but sincere. "You were good out there."
And for once, I didn't feel like it was flattery.
By the time Samora called it, my muscles were trembling and my braid had half-fallen loose. Darian offered me his hand to help me down from the sparring platform, and I took it without thinking. His palm was warm, steadying.
"Not bad," he said with a small smile. "You made Samora work for it."
"That's a victory in itself," I panted.
We were walking toward the courtyard gates when movement ahead caught my eye.
Caelen.
He was coming from the opposite side of the training grounds, that long, unhurried stride impossible to mistake. His black training coat was unfastened at the collar, sleeves rolled just enough to show the ink curling along his forearms. The late sun lit the edges of his hair in molten copper.
Our eyes locked, and for a moment I forgot the ache in my muscles. He didn't look away. Not even when Darian's hand brushed mine.
Something tightened in my chest—defiance, maybe, or the sharp edge of curiosity from that night I'd overheard him. She's not like the others.
I turned to Darian before I could talk myself out of it. "Kiss me."
He blinked. "Right now?"
"Yes."
Darian didn't ask again. He stepped closer, one hand sliding to the side of my face, the other curling lightly at my hip. His mouth met mine—warm, steady, tasting faintly of mint. I leaned into it just enough to make the point I didn't want to say aloud.
When I finally opened my eyes, Caelen was still watching. His expression gave nothing away, but there was a weight in his gaze that prickled down my spine before he turned and walked on.
Darian's thumb brushed lightly along my jaw. "Once isn't enough," he murmured, and before I could react, he leaned in again.
This kiss was slower, deeper—less about making a point and more about the pull between us. By the time he drew back, my pulse was thudding in my ears.
When Darian finally let me go, his smile was warm, easy—like what just happened was the most natural thing in the world.
"Come on," he said, his hand brushing mine in a way that made my breath catch. "You'll miss breakfast if I keep you here."
I forced my feet to move, though my head was still spinning—not from the kiss, or not entirely.
Because even as we left the training yard behind, I could still feel Caelen's gaze on me.
Still hear that conversation I'd overheard in his room.
I still wonder whether the heat in my chest was from the way Darian had kissed me… or from the way Caelen had looked at me, like I'd just crossed some invisible line.
By the time we reached the dining hall, the clamor of voices and clatter of dishes filled the air. Long tables stretched the length of the chamber, sunlight spilling in through high, narrow windows.
Darian steered me toward an empty spot near the middle. I slid onto the bench beside him, the scent of cinnamon bread and spiced tea curling through the air. He said something about the training course tomorrow, but my mind kept drifting.
Every few moments, I found myself glancing toward the far end of the hall.
Toward him.
Caelen sat with a few of the senior trainees, his dark hair catching the light, his posture as still and deliberate as always. He didn't speak much—he never did—but the moment our gazes met across the room, it was like the air shifted.
I broke the stare first, turning back to my plate, stabbing at a piece of fruit I didn't taste.
Darian leaned closer, his arm brushing mine. "You're quiet all of a sudden."
"Just thinking," I said quickly, forcing a smile.
And I was.
Thinking about the way Darian's lips had felt on mine.
And the way Caelen's eyes had followed me after.
After the meal, Darian reached out to help me off the bench. We slipped quietly into the cooler hallway, the noise from the crowd fading behind us.
"I'll walk you back," he said.
I hesitated, then gave a small, gentle smile. "That's kind of you, but… I think I need a few minutes alone to clear my head before tomorrow."
His eyebrows twitched like he wanted to argue, but he let it go. "Alright. But you owe me another date."
"Deal," I said, and before I could stop myself, I squeezed his hand lightly. "Thanks… for today."
His grin was slow and warm, the kind that lingers even after he turns away down the hall.
I exhaled, letting the quiet wrap around me as I headed toward my room. But when I rounded the final corner, I froze.
Caelen was there, leaning against my door frame, arms crossed, one boot braced against the wall. His jaw was tight, and his eyes burned with something I couldn't quite place.
"I spoke to Fynn," Caelen said quietly, voice low but hard. "He told me to stay away from you."
I blinked, caught off guard. "And did you listen?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, his gaze dropped to my hands, then back up, sharper than before. "Does it look like I did?"
I tried to keep my voice steady. "So why are you here?"
His lips twisted, half-smile, half-grimace. "Because I couldn't stay away. Not when you were with him."
The words hit harder than I expected. "You're jealous."
Caelen's eyes darkened, the tension in his stance cracking just a little. "Maybe. But you should know… he's not the one who's supposed to be kissing you."
I swallowed, heart pounding. "That's not yours to decide."
He stepped closer, voice low but urgent. "I don't want to stay away. Not from you."
I stepped back, wary. "Then don't."
The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. Finally, Caelen's voice dropped to a whisper. "Just… be careful who you let in."
Caelen walked away as betrayal hits me hard. Fynn—of all people—telling Caelen to stay away from me? Like I was some prize to be fought over or a secret to be guarded.
I stormed down the hall, each step pounding with frustration. Where was Fynn now? I needed answers. I needed to look him in the eye and demand why he thought he had the right to control who I saw, who I talked to.
The dorm corridors blurred as I pushed through, ignoring the curious glances from passing students. My fists clenched at my sides, my mind racing with every insult I wanted to throw at him.
When I finally found him—leaning against the stone wall near the practice gym, arms folded, looking annoyingly calm—my voice cracked with barely contained fury.
"Why the hell did you tell Caelen to stay away from me?" I demanded, stepping so close he could see the fire burning in my eyes.
Fynn's calm facade faltered for just a second, but he quickly masked it. "I'm looking out for you, Elena."
"By interfering? By deciding who I can and can't see?" I spat back. "You don't get to do that."
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's not about control. You just don't see what I see."
"Oh, I see perfectly," I snapped. "I see someone afraid to admit he's jealous. Someone who thinks he can protect me better than I can protect myself."
Fynn's jaw clenched. "Maybe I am jealous. Maybe I don't want to lose you to someone who doesn't deserve you."
I took a deep breath, shaking my head in disbelief. "You're not the one who gets to decide that. Not you, not Caelen, no one."
The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.
Then, steady and cold, I said,
"My heart doesn't belong to you…. At least not anymore."
I turned slowly, the ache in my chest raw and heavy, leaving Fynn standing there—his silence echoing the hurt I couldn't hide.