The private training hall of House Valenor was built beneath the eastern wing of the castle, where stone was thick enough to swallow sound and secrets alike. Torches lined the walls in disciplined symmetry, their flames steady, casting gold over steel and sweat. The air smelled of oil, iron, and old victories.
It was a place meant for princes.
Lucien Valenor stood at the center of the hall like it had been made for him.
Sword in hand, shoulders squared, posture flawless—he moved with the confidence of someone who had never doubted his place in the world. Every strike was precise, every step calculated. When he turned, the torches caught the edge of his blade and set it briefly aflame.
Crown Prince Lucien Valenor, heir to Elyndor. The kingdom's pride.
Across from him, Prince Aurelian Valenor raised his sword a heartbeat too late.
Steel met steel with a sharp clang that echoed through the chamber. Aurelian staggered back half a step, boots scraping against the stone. He recovered quickly—he always did—but the moment had already passed.
Lucien lowered his blade slightly, a grin tugging at his mouth. "You're hesitating again."
Aurelian tightened his grip. His knuckles were white beneath the leather wrap of the hilt. "I'm thinking."
"That's the problem," Lucien replied lightly. "Thinking gets you killed."
It wasn't cruel. It was true. And Lucien said it the way he said most things—like a lesson generously offered, not a rebuke.
Aurelian inclined his head in acknowledgment, dark hair falling into his eyes. He adjusted his stance, feet spreading a fraction wider, shoulders relaxing. He had always been slimmer than his brother, quieter, his strength less obvious. Where Lucien was fire, Aurelian was restraint.
They circled each other again.
At the edge of the training hall, standing perfectly still, was Sir Caelan Thorne.
He wore no crest upon his armor—only the sigil of the royal guard etched into steel dulled by years of use. His sword was sheathed, his hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid enough to shame marble.
His eyes never left the princes.
When Lucien lunged, Caelan's gaze followed the arc of the blade. When Aurelian parried, Caelan noted the angle, the tension in the wrist, the slight delay in footwork. He missed nothing. He never did.
Lucien pressed harder this time, driving Aurelian backward in a flurry of strikes. Steel rang again and again, sparks flashing as blades slid past one another. Aurelian ducked, pivoted, deflected—his movements efficient but defensive.
Lucien broke away suddenly, laughing as he spun his sword once and lowered it. "You're better than last week."
Aurelian exhaled, lowering his own blade. Sweat clung to his temple, his breath steady but deep. "High praise."
Lucien smirked. "From me? Always."
He turned toward the sidelines, toward the knight who had not moved an inch. "Caelan. Your turn."
Caelan did not hesitate.
He stepped forward, unsheathing his sword in one smooth motion. The sound of steel sliding free cut cleanly through the air, sharper than the clang of practice. He bowed first to Lucien—deep, respectful—then to Aurelian, lower still.
"My princes," he said.
Lucien gestured casually. "Don't go easy on him."
Aurelian shot his brother a look. "You never do."
Caelan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
He took his position opposite Aurelian, feet grounded, blade angled low. Unlike Lucien, there was no flourish to his stance. No wasted motion. He stood like a wall—unyielding, inevitable.
Aurelian lifted his sword again.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Caelan struck.
It was fast. Brutally so.
Aurelian barely managed to block the first blow, the impact reverberating up his arms. Caelan followed immediately, forcing him to retreat, blade relentless. There was no laughter now, no teasing rhythm—only pressure.
Aurelian's breath quickened. He parried, ducked, twisted away, but Caelan stayed with him, matching every movement as though he had anticipated it before it happened.
"You're anticipating again," Caelan said calmly, even as he attacked.
Aurelian's heart stuttered. "You said thinking gets me killed."
"I said hesitating does," Caelan corrected.
Lucien watched with interest from the sidelines, arms crossed. "He's right, Aurelian. Stop waiting for the opening. Make it."
Aurelian gritted his teeth and shifted tactics. Instead of retreating, he stepped in.
It was reckless. Dangerous.
Caelan's eyes flickered—just once.
Their blades crossed at close range, steel locked. For the first time, they were near enough that Aurelian could see the faint scar cutting through Caelan's eyebrow, the way his breath remained steady despite the exertion.
"You're improving," Caelan murmured.
The words were quiet. Private.
Something in Aurelian's chest tightened.
Caelan disengaged abruptly, stepping back. "But you rely too much on defense."
Before Aurelian could respond, Caelan swept his leg low, hooking behind Aurelian's ankle. The prince went down hard, sword clattering across the stone.
Lucien laughed. "Down already?"
Aurelian lay there for a moment, staring up at the torch-lit ceiling, chest rising and falling. He should have been embarrassed. He wasn't.
He pushed himself upright, brushing dust from his sleeve. "Again."
Caelan hesitated.
It was subtle. No one but Aurelian noticed.
Lucien did, though, and arched a brow. "What? Feeling merciful?"
"No," Caelan said immediately. "Never."
They resumed.
This time, Aurelian lasted longer.
Long enough for sweat to soak through his tunic. Long enough for his arms to ache. Long enough for Lucien's expression to shift from amusement to something closer to approval.
When Caelan finally disarmed him—twisting his wrist and sending the sword skidding away—Aurelian laughed breathlessly.
"I almost had you."
Caelan stepped back, sheathing his blade. "You did."
Lucien blinked. "You're agreeing with him now?"
Caelan bowed his head. "He forced me to retreat twice."
Aurelian froze.
Lucien's eyes flicked between them, something unreadable passing across his face. Then he shrugged. "Progress is progress."
He turned toward the weapons rack. "I'll spar again tomorrow. I've council business."
He paused at the door, glancing back at Aurelian. "Don't let him coddle you."
Caelan stiffened. "I would never."
Lucien laughed and left.
The door closed with a heavy thud.
Silence filled the training hall.
Aurelian bent to retrieve his sword, then stopped. His fingers hovered over the hilt before withdrawing. Instead, he sat on the stone bench lining the wall, rolling his shoulders.
"You don't coddle me," he said quietly.
Caelan turned toward him. "It is not my place."
Aurelian looked up at him then.
Really looked.
The torchlight carved Caelan's features into something severe and beautiful—sharp cheekbones, dark eyes set too deep for softness, a mouth that rarely smiled. He stood like a man carved out of discipline, every inch of him shaped by oath and command.
"You train with us every day," Aurelian said. "You bleed with us. You correct me when my brother does not."
Caelan's hands curled at his sides. "I serve."
"That's not an answer."
Caelan said nothing.
Aurelian rose slowly, stepping closer—not invading, not touching. Just near enough to feel the heat of him, the quiet gravity that pulled everything inward.
"You never look at me," Aurelian said.
Caelan's breath caught.
"I look where I am required."
"Then where are you required to look?" Aurelian asked softly.
For a moment—a single, dangerous moment—Caelan met his gaze.
There was something there. Not desire. Not yet.
Something like restraint stretched to the point of fracture.
"My duty," Caelan said hoarsely.
Aurelian nodded, as though accepting that answer.
He stepped back, picking up his sword at last. "Then train me again tomorrow."
Caelan bowed deeply. "As you command, Your Highness."
But as Aurelian walked toward the exit, Caelan's eyes followed him—just once—before snapping back to their proper place.
Above them, unseen and unspoken, the crown waited.
And beneath it, steel obeyed.