Elena should've known training with Soren would start badly when he opened with:
"Try not to die."
Great. Absolutely great motivational speech. Ten out of ten.
They stood in the citadel's practice yard the next morning — snow crunching beneath their boots, breath misting in the cold.
Soren wore black again.Of course he did.Black leather, black gloves, black mood.
Elena held a wooden dagger that felt suspiciously like a popsicle stick.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered. "You act like I'm about to stab myself in the face."
"You nearly stabbed Eris in the face," Soren corrected.
"Semantics."
"No," he said, stepping closer, "near-murder."
She rolled her eyes and lifted the dagger.
Before she could plant her feet, Soren said:
"Stop."
She froze mid-wobble. "What now?"
His gaze sharpened.Cold. Exact. A different Soren than the one who carried her through snowfall.
"Before we begin, there are rules."
"Oh good," she said. "I love when physical pain comes with paperwork."
His voice dropped — soft, lethal velvet.
"You will do exactly what I say."
She blinked. "Okay, but like… within reason—"
"No."Not loud. Not harsh.Just final.
"No negotiations," he continued. "No improvisation. No disobedience. In a real fight, hesitation gets you killed. In training with me, it gets you hurt."
Her mouth fell open."That's reassuring."
"It should be. I am not Eris. I will not let you flail a weapon near my face."
She held the dagger tighter. "And if I disagree with your instructions?"
"You won't."
"That's—wow—that's very arrogant."
"Correct."
She stared at him.He stared back.The air thickened.
"Fine," she muttered. "Rule-following. Total obedience. Whatever. Happy?"
"No." His expression didn't change. "You will also speak when addressed. And stop when I say stop."
"What am I, a puppy?"
"If it improves your listening skills, I will consider fetching you a collar."
"SOREN!"
A very faint — very faint — smirk tugged his mouth before vanishing like it had never existed.
"Stand," he said.
"I am standing."
"No," he said, stepping into her space. "You are… wobbling."
"Lesson one," he said, circling her. "Your stance is appalling."
"Wow. Love the supportive environment."
"Widen your feet."
She moved them an inch.
"Wider."
Another inch.
"Elena."
She sighed and stepped far apart, nearly doing the splits. "Is THIS wide enough?"
"No," he said dryly, "but if you dislocate something, training ends early."
"Can we please do something that doesn't involve me making shapes from a geometry textbook?"
"No."
He moved behind her — close enough that his chest brushed her back when he adjusted her shoulders.
Her breath stopped.
His gloved hands slid along her arms, turning her wrists, correcting the angle of her grip.He was all heat and controlled strength behind her, body aligned with hers like a second spine.
Her pulse thudded violently.
"Lesson two," he murmured near her ear, "you hold the dagger too loosely."
"That's because my hands are cold," she whispered.
"No," he said softly. "That is fear."
She stiffened.
The air shifted. The softness she expected did not come.
Instead — Soren's voice chilled to a razor.
"Fear," he said, "will get you killed."
She flinched.
He felt it — she knew he did — but he didn't soften. Didn't step back. Didn't reassure.
Prince Soren was teaching her now.
Not the man who carried her from a dungeon.Not the man who whispered her name with shaking relief.Not the man who held her on horseback like she was breakable.
This Soren was made of ice and command.
"Strike," he ordered.
She turned — too slow. Too clumsy. Too emotional.
He caught her wrist in one swift movement and twisted her arm behind her back — not painfully, but firmly, decisively, showing how easily someone else could.
Her breath hitched.
He leaned in. "Lesson three," he murmured, "your enemy will not be gentle."
Something hot and electric shot through her — want tangled with fear — messy, confusing, overwhelming.
She couldn't breathe.
"Soren," she whispered. "Let go."
He did. Immediately. As though burned.
She spun away, clutching her wrist, chest tight.
His expression shuttered — instantly unreadable.
"Elena," he said quietly, "did I hurt you?"
"No," she said too fast, backing up another step. "You're just—different. Cold. You were—"
Her voice dissolved.
He took one step toward her.
She flinched.
Not dramatically — barely perceptible — but he saw it.
It landed like a blade.
Soren froze.
"Elena," he said again, softer now. "I won't harm you."
But she saw the king's icy throne.She saw Soren's mask of cruelty.She saw the iron grip he used on prisoners.She saw the man who nearly beat her captor to death.
And for the first time—
She wondered which version of him she was training with.
Her throat tightened.
"I—I think that's enough for today."
"Elena," he said, voice low with something close to frustration, "that was barely five minutes."
"I don't care."
He swallowed once.
Hard.
A crack appeared in his expression — something like hurt, quickly drowned beneath rigid composure.
"As you wish," he said.
Formal. Distant. A stranger again.
He stepped back.
"Training is dismissed."
She nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
As she walked away, the cold wasn't from the snow.
It was from the space growing between them.