The heat dragged Eva from uneasy sleep. Sweat dampened her skin, her nightclothes clinging as though the air itself pressed down on her. Her stomach twisted—then growled. She hadn't eaten enough at dinner.
With a small sigh, she rose. The fruit basket on the table gleamed in the moonlight. She picked up an apple, firm and cool against her palm, and padded barefoot to the door. The hallway was dark and quiet, the air blessedly cooler. She took a slow bite, savoring the crisp flesh, then turned down a passage she'd discovered in her careful explorations—an older, half-forgotten corridor where the air moved more freely, carrying the faint scent of earth and stone.
The crunch of her second bite was loud in the silence. Then, at the edge of her vision—movement.
A hooded figure glided through the shadows ahead, too silent to be a servant, too cautious to be anyone on rightful business. Eva froze. The figure hadn't seen her.
Her grip tightened on the apple. Instinct said retreat—but her pulse said follow.
Keeping her steps light, she trailed the stranger through a narrow passage that twisted downward, deeper into the castle's bones. Torches gave way to darkness, broken only by faint slivers of moonlight through cracks in the stone. The figure moved with purpose, weaving into an underground passageway Eva had never dared before.
At last, the stranger reached a threshold. Beyond it, faint candlelight spilled. The figure slipped through. Eva crept closer, her breath held, and peered inside.
Her blood went cold.
Lucarion lay in a bed draped with silk, his pale features calm, the stillness of deep sleep cloaking him. The hooded figure loomed at his side, a stake raised high.
An assassin.
Eva's heart hammered. She could let this happen. Watch the blade fall, and be free.
But freedom handed to her by a stranger's knife wasn't victory—it was theft.
No. If she was to prove Lucarion was not the one chosen by her god, it had to be her hand that felled him. Only then would she know—only then would the truth be undeniable.
Her jaw tightened. She stepped forward, silent as shadow.
—
A ripple of danger dragged Lucarion from the depths of slumber. His eyes snapped open to find a shadow looming above him, stake poised to pierce his heart.
In an instant he surged upward, his hand clamping around the attacker's wrist with inhuman strength. He was ready to twist, to break, to spill blood—
—but before he could, the figure's head jerked violently, twisting at an impossible angle. Bone cracked.
The corpse slid from the bed in a tangle of cloak and limbs. Eva stood beyond it, the apple still clamped between her teeth, both hands free from where they'd just snapped the intruder's neck. As the body thudded to the floor, she lifted one hand at last, plucking the fruit from her mouth as though nothing more than a brief interruption had occurred.
Lucarion was on her before she could draw another breath. The silk sheets fell away as he moved, a blur of pale menace. She stiffened as her shoulders struck cold stone, his arm braced across her chest, his face close enough that his breath grazed her cheek.
His voice was a growl, low and dangerous. "What are you doing here?"
Eva didn't flinch, amber eyes unblinking.
"Walking," she said evenly, flat with defiance. "And I found… him." A flick of her gaze toward the corpse, then back to him, sharp and unreadable.
"Where," Lucarion hissed, "did you come from?"
She sank her teeth into the apple instead, the crunch ringing in the silence.
Juice traced a line down her thumb.
Then she lazily raised the fruit toward the shadowed corner she had slipped from and swallowed. Her voice stayed cool, almost careless. "There's a passage. A servants' crawl hidden behind an old masonry. Narrow, but if you know where to push, it opens. I followed him. It connects to the outer wall."
A faint draft still leaked through the seam in the stone, carrying the damp tang of earth. Lucarion's eyes followed it, narrowing. He knew the type—ventilation shafts, escape routes, relics from older fortifications patched into the castle when it was expanded. Vulnerable seams, sealed in theory.
His jaw tightened. "That passage was supposed to be closed."
For a moment his weight pressed harder, the wall biting at her back, the heat of him a cage. His gaze raked over her face, searching, calculating. Then, with deliberate restraint, he stepped back.
The guards thundered into the chamber at his call. Their eyes went wide at the corpse sprawled across their prince's floor.
Lucarion didn't look at them. His gaze stayed fixed on Eva as she brushed past, apple in hand, slipping through the door before the guards could form their questions.
—
Eva didn't sleep much after leaving his chambers. Even when she finally drifted off, her dreams were thin and brittle, shattered by every creak of stone and whisper of the wind.
By morning, her eyes burned, her body heavy, though the memory of Lucarion's silence lingered sharper than fatigue. He had let her go too easily. No questions, no accusations—just that measured retreat. It gnawed at her, the knowledge that he was waiting. Watching.
A knock came at her door. A servant entered, arms laden with a folded set of whites and a slim mask. "His Highness requests you prepare for training," the girl said softly, eyes lowered.
Eva's mouth thinned. So that was it. The issue had not been dropped at all.
—
The practice hall smelled faintly of polished wood and oil, shafts of pale light cutting across the floor. Eva stepped inside, dressed in the simple training whites brought to her. A rack of foils gleamed at the far wall, and she reached for one, testing the balance in her hand.
Lucarion stood at the center of the hall, already armed, his blade gleaming in the morning light. His expression was unreadable, but the faint curve of his lips was anything but reassuring.
"You said you wanted fencing," he said, voice smooth as silk. "I thought it only fitting I oblige you."
Eva's grip tightened on the hilt. Her throat rasped faintly when she answered, though she kept her tone sharp. "I didn't ask for you."
"You'll find I rarely wait to be asked."
He saluted with the blade, mockingly formal. She returned it, stiff and deliberate.
The first clash of steel rang sharp in the air. He pressed her back easily at first, his strength overwhelming—but he wasn't fighting to win. He was circling, testing.
"Tell me," Lucarion murmured between strikes, "why did you intervene?"
His blade darted close, quick as a serpent, forcing her to pivot.
"That intruder might have spared you a lifetime of inconvenience."
Eva deflected, the shock of metal rattling up her arm. Her breath tore harsh through her throat, raw as she forced steadiness into her words.
"Did you find out who he was?"
Lucarion's next strike came slower, deliberate; his eyes narrowed, weighing her question.
"A mercenary," he said at last. "Hired through two intermediaries, both now dead."
A faint smirk curved his lips. "Someone paid dearly to try to kill me — and yet here you stand, alive. Interesting, isn't it?"
She caught his next blow with a sharp twist of her wrist. A flicker of calculation crossed her amber eyes, but she kept it buried beneath a mask of casual ease.
"Hired blades is not my style," she said smoothly, letting her words carry only as much meaning as he could see.
He pressed closer, the steel of their blades humming against each other. "I'm sure," he said, voice low and deliberate, "you will reveal your style soon enough."
Then he struck again, harder this time—no amusement in his eyes, only provocation.
Steel clashed, echoing sharp in the high-ceilinged hall. He pressed her, forcing her guard high, low, then sideways with a quick flick of his wrist.
Eva gritted her teeth and adjusted, each breath catching on the rawness in her throat. She refused to give him the satisfaction of stumbling, her mind quietly weighing each motion, each feint, each rhythm of his strike.
Another strike rang out, another correction followed, sharper this time.
Sweat slid down her temple, her breath coming faster, rasping harder, but she matched him as best she could, refusing to yield ground. His smirk curved, dark and approving, each measured blow daring her to falter.
At last, his blade slid against hers with a final screech of metal before he stepped back, lowering his guard. "Enough."
Her chest rose and fell, sweat soaking the whites at her collar. Her wrists throbbed with the ache of strain, hands trembling faintly despite her effort to still them. Her throat burned with every swallow, each breath scraping like glass against month-old bruises. She flexed her fingers against the hilt once, quick, hoping he wouldn't notice the tremor in her hands.
His gaze lingered on her faint shake, sharp and assessing—then passed over it, making no comment. For a long moment, he simply regarded her, the silence stretching like a taut wire. Then, without a word, he turned and strode from the salle, his footsteps echoing against the stone.
Her wrists screamed, her chest burned, her throat ached with every breath—but her resolve cut cleaner than any blade. She would endure. And she would be ready.