In the training yard, the only sound was ragged breathing and the dry clash of wood against hardened leather.
Lyssara stepped back two paces, keeping her guard up. Her arms were trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the exhaustion accumulated after two hours of continuous exercise. The practice rapier weighed twice what it had at the start of the session, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep the tip raised, aiming at her instructor's chest.
Torin watched her from his position, motionless. The master-at-arms showed no signs of fatigue. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but Lyssara knew that calm was deceptive.
"Your right foot," Torin indicated, pointing to the ground with his chin.
"You've turned it out too much. If I attack your flank, you'll lose your balance before you can block."
Lyssara glanced down for an instant, corrected the position of her boot on the packed earth, and fixed her eyes on him again.
"Again," she said.
Torin nodded. There was no warning. He lunged forward with a quick movement, aiming for her left shoulder. Lyssara reacted. She did not try to stop the blow with brute force; she knew she would lose that exchange. Instead, she took a lateral step, deflecting Torin's blade with a twist of her wrist and looking for an opening in his low defense.
Their swords clashed. Lyssara felt the vibration run up her arm to her shoulder, but she maintained her grip. She managed to lightly tap Torin's padded doublet before he pushed her away with a controlled shove.
"Point," Torin said, lowering his weapon.
"Although you lack strength in the recovery. If you miss that touch, you are exposed."
Lyssara nodded, sheathing the practice weapon. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, clearing the sweat that was blurring her vision. Her lungs burned with every deep inhale, but it was a satisfying pain.
She looked toward the other end of the yard.
Sareth was sprawled on the ground, face up, his arms outstretched and his chest heaving violently. He looked as if he had finished a battle against an army, though he had only been running and doing basic exercises.
Lyssara walked toward him. Her boots crunched on the gravel.
"Get up," she said upon reaching his side.
Sareth opened one eye, looking at her with a mix of misery and supplication.
"I can't," he gasped. "Everything hurts. My legs... I feel like they're going to fall off."
"Don't be dramatic," Lyssara gave him a soft nudge with the tip of her boot on his side.
"It was only three laps and fifty push-ups. Rylan did that for a warm-up before breakfast when he was your age."
"I am not Rylan," Sareth murmured, closing his eyes again.
Lyssara sighed. She crouched beside him. There was no mockery on her face, only seriousness.
"No, you are not Rylan. Rylan has natural strength. You have to build yours. And if you stay lying there, the cold will numb your muscles and tomorrow you won't even be able to get out of bed."
Sareth groaned but accepted the hand Lyssara offered him. She pulled him up firmly. Sareth was light for his age, but Lyssara noticed there was a little more resistance in his grip than there had been three weeks ago.
"Let's go drink water," she said, guiding him toward the stone bench under the main building's eaves.
They sat down. Lyssara took a leather waterskin and drank long draughts, feeling the cool liquid run down her throat. She passed the waterskin to Sareth, who drank eagerly, spilling a little onto his chin.
They remained in silence for a few minutes, watching the empty yard. Servants passed in the distance, carrying baskets, avoiding looking toward the training area.
"Torin says you've improved," Sareth commented, breaking the silence as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"You move faster."
"I need to be faster," Lyssara replied, looking at her own hands. She had new calluses on her palms. Her mother would be horrified if she saw them, but Lyssara didn't care.
"At the Academy, most heirs will have been training for years with the best masters in the capital. If I arrive there weak, I will be easy prey."
"You have never been weak," Sareth said.
"Just... different."
Lyssara gave him a sidelong glance.
"Being different does not protect you when someone wants your position, Sareth. Weakness is a luxury we cannot afford. Especially now."
Sareth looked down, fiddling with the stopper of the waterskin.
"Do you think he will return soon?"
Lyssara felt a pang of irritation. She knew who he was referring to.
"Kael does as he pleases," she said, her voice hardening slightly. "He left with Aldric without clear explanations, beyond that absurd trip to Arven. He should have been back by now."
"Maybe he ran into trouble," Sareth suggested, worry evident in his tone. "Arven is a big city. And Kael is small. If someone tried..."
"Kael knows how to take care of himself," Lyssara interrupted.
"That boy has more tricks. What worries me is not his safety. I'm worried about what he's doing. Kael doesn't take false steps. If he's taking this long, it's because he's plotting something that will probably splash back on all of us when he returns."
"It feels empty without him," Sareth admitted softly. "The mansion... it's too big. And Mother is unbearable. Yesterday she yelled at me because I was reading in the hallway. She said I was obstructing the view."
Lyssara felt a surge of annoyance toward her mother, but she repressed it. Elyn was Elyn. She wasn't going to change.
"Mother only cares about appearances," Lyssara said.
"Ignore her. If you lock yourself in your room or the library, she won't see you."
"That's what I do," Sareth said.
"But sometimes I wish I could talk back to her. Like Kael does. Or like you do."
"You will be able to," Lyssara assured him, standing up and stretching her back. "When you stop shaking after running three laps, you will have the confidence to talk back. Body and mind are linked, Sareth. If you feel strong, you speak strong."
Sareth looked at her with doubt, but nodded.
"Go take a bath," Lyssara ordered. "You stink of sweat and dirt. And tell the kitchen to give you a double portion at lunch. You need meat, not just cakes."
"Yes, chief," Sareth murmured, rising with effort and walking toward the east wing, dragging his feet.
Lyssara watched him leave. There was something pathetic in his posture, but also a hint of perseverance. Sareth kept returning to the yard every morning, despite hating it, only because she asked him to. That was worth something.
'Loyalty is a scarce resource,' Lyssara thought.
Torin approached, wiping his sword with an oiled cloth.
"The boy lasted five minutes longer today," he commented without looking at Lyssara.
"I know."
"And you... you are ready for the next phase. Tomorrow we will leave the posture exercises. We will begin with free combat."
"Good," Lyssara said.
"I expect nothing less."
Torin nodded and retired toward the armory.
Lyssara was left alone for a moment in the yard, feeling the cold wind on her damp skin. She looked toward the windows of her father's study, on the upper floor. The curtains were closed, as always. Varen Drayvar governed his duchy from the shadows of that room, a presence that was felt in every stone of the castle, heavy and demanding.
She wanted that power. Not the power to destroy armies, as Rylan wanted. Nor the strange, manipulative power Kael sought. She wanted the authority. She wanted to sit in that chair and know that no one, ever again, could tell her what to do, who to marry, or where to go.
She turned and walked toward her chambers. She had to prepare herself.
Lyssara's bath was filled with steam. The maids had brought buckets of hot water from the kitchen boilers and had filled the large copper tub. They had left clean towels, essential oils, and a lavender soap on the side table before retiring with a silent curtsy.
Lyssara closed the door and bolted it. It was the only moment of the day when she was truly alone, without the critical gaze of her mother, the indifference of her father, or the pressure of her own training.
She removed her training clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor. She stepped into the hot water, releasing a long sigh as the heat enveloped her sore body. She submerged herself up to her chin, closing her eyes.
Her mind, however, did not rest.
The departure date for the Imperial Academy in Vaeloria was approaching. In two weeks, she would leave Stormvale. She would leave the secure mansion to venture into the capital, a viper's nest where last names mattered more than blood.
She was ready for the challenge. She had studied etiquette, politics, and history. Now she was training her body. She knew how to smile at an enemy and how to detect a lie.
But there was a logistical problem that would not leave her alone.
She opened her eyes and looked at the stone ceiling, where condensation drops clustered.
If she left, Stormvale would be left in darkness for her.
Letters took days, sometimes weeks, to arrive from south to center. And her father's official letters would never tell the full truth. Her mother would only write about gossip and fashion.
If something important happened in House Drayvar—a change in alliances, an illness, a move by Kael—she would be the last to know. She would be blind in the capital, making decisions based on obsolete information.
Lyssara sat up slightly, the water slipping from her shoulders. She observed her distorted reflection on the water's surface.
She needed eyes here.
She needed someone to stay behind. Someone who had access to the mansion, who could overhear conversations, see who came and went, and report directly to her.
She thought of the servants. Ruled out. They were loyal to gold or to the fear of Varen. A servant could be easily bought or intimidated.
She thought of the guards. Torin was loyal to her father. The others were mere soldiers.
Her mind returned to Sareth.
The invisible brother.
Sareth went unnoticed. No one lowered their voice when he entered a room because no one considered him a threat. Her mother actively ignored him. Her father did not even register his presence. Kael... Kael used him when convenient, but he didn't tell him everything.
Sareth was perfect.
He read. He was observant, even if he pretended to be always distracted. And most importantly: he was desperate to belong.
Lyssara took the sponge and began scrubbing her arm, thinking.
She had created a bond with him in these weeks of training. Sareth no longer saw her just as the distant older sister; he saw her as someone who paid attention to him, who pushed him to improve.
But Sareth was shy. He needed support. He couldn't do everything alone.
Lyssara remembered the girl from the library. Carmen. She had seen her a couple of times talking to Sareth in the hallways, with that nervous complicity of teenagers. The daughter of the head librarian.
If Sareth had access to the hallways and Carmen had access to the archives and the servants' rumors...
Lyssara smiled. It was a small network. Fragile, perhaps. But it was hers.
She rose from the tub, the water cascading down. She grabbed the towel and began drying herself with delicate movements.
She had to consolidate that alliance before she left. She had to make sure Sareth understood that this was not a child's game, but a strategy for survival. She had to offer him something no one else gave him—respect and protection.
She wrapped herself in a dark blue silk robe. She sat down in front of the vanity mirror and began to brush her damp hair.
She looked at her face in the mirror. Her mother's fine features, but with her father's hard eyes.
"Chief of House Drayvar," she whispered to her reflection, testing how the words sounded.
Not a duke's wife. Not a bargaining chip. Chief.
To achieve it, she had to control her base. And her base was Stormvale.
She placed the brush on the table.
She would go down to dinner. She would look for Sareth. She wouldn't talk about the subject yet, not on an empty stomach with servants milling around the main dining room. First, she would reinforce normalcy. Tomorrow, in the garden, far from the stone walls that always seemed to listen, she would make her proposal.
Lyssara stood up, adjusting the belt of her robe. She felt clean, alert, and dangerous.
She left her room toward the torch-lit hallway.
"Let's go see what my little brother is up to," she murmured.
She walked toward the dining room, her steps silent on the carpets, ready to start moving her own pieces on the family board. Kael was not the only Drayvar who knew how to play.