Aeryn drew her blade, steadying her breath. The candlelight in the chamber flickered across the dulled steel, casting thin lines of fire along its edge.
The hooded man—tall, quiet, and far too calm—watched her closely. His presence filled the room with a heavy silence. Something about him felt different from the others. Sharper. Smarter.
She held her stance. Left foot forward. Elbow tucked. Just like Little Master taught her.
He drew his own weapon with a quiet motion. "Begin."
Steel rang out. Once. Twice. Fast.
Aeryn deflected his first strike cleanly, spun beneath the second, and aimed a blow at his exposed ribs. He parried in time. She stepped back, measured, waited.
He came again, faster this time. Testing. Probing.
She blocked high, redirected low, and twisted away before the third strike landed.
"You fight like someone used to tight spaces," he said.
"Is that a problem?" she asked.
"No. It's a sign you've fought to survive."
Their swords clashed again. He pressed her, and she answered—not with brute strength, but efficiency. Economy. Every movement calculated. Every breath measured.
She nearly disarmed him with a wrist hook—he twisted away just in time.
Then, something shifted. His blade paused midair. His eyes narrowed.
He stepped back, lowered his sword, and studied her.
---
From Kael's perspective:
The prince stood in the candlelit training chamber, sweat dampening the collar of his shirt beneath the leathers.
He had watched a dozen recruits today. Most were eager, clumsy, or arrogant. One had almost fainted during the warm-up drill.
This one—Aeron—was different.
Shorter. Slighter. Quieter. But each strike held intention. Discipline. Control.
And Kael had seen those eyes before.
Eight years ago.
He had been seventeen, wounded and on the run, bleeding into the rosebushes behind a noble estate. And a girl—a small, sharp-eyed girl no older than ten—had found him. Not screamed. Not run. Just nodded.
She led him to an abandoned shed and brought him food by moonlight.
He remembered the way she watched him practice with sticks and broken blades, mimicking his footwork when she thought he wasn't looking. He remembered her fierce little face when she first blocked a blow.
She never asked for his name.
She only called him "Little Master."
And now—now he saw that same fire again. The same eyes. Wiser now. Angrier. Focused.
"You've trained?" he asked.
"Yes."
"With who?"
"Who said it was formal?"
Blunt. Guarded. Exactly like her.
Kael stepped closer, circled. "You fight like someone who's hiding something."
The answer came instantly: "Maybe I am."
He stared into her eyes. Eyes that once belonged to a girl who hid a stranger and learned to wield a sword like a general. Even beneath the soot and the boyish disguise, he could see it—those eyes. Dark, burning, impossible to forget. His little disciple. His little friend. No mask could hide her from him.
He had wanted to come back for her. Many times. But fear had held him still.
Not fear of blades or arrows—those he faced without blinking. But fear of her anger. Her disappointment.
He had vanished without a word, without a farewell. He had told himself it was for her safety—that staying would've brought danger to her doorstep. But even so, he had never stopped wondering if she'd hated him for it.
And now she was here, standing before him in another identity, unknowingly finding her way back into his world.
But she was supposed to be a noble girl. Lost to the court. Surely she couldn't have survived like this.
He sheathed his blade.
"You're in," he said.
The flicker of surprise in her gaze was brief—but telling.
She nodded and bowed stiffly, turning to go.
As Kael watched her retreat into the shadowed corridor, the name rose unbidden in his mind:
Aeryn.
But he said nothing.
Not yet.
For now, she was Aeron.
And Kael, too, wore a mask.
But behind it, his mind raced.
He had imagined this reunion in countless ways—some filled with anger, others with forgiveness. But never like this. Not in a shadowed training chamber, not with her calling herself Aeron.
Yet the moment their blades met, he knew. The eyes, the rhythm of her movement, the calm tension in her jaw. All of it screamed her name.
Aeryn.
His little disciple, once a wild child with a stubborn chin and an iron will. She had learned faster than anyone he'd ever seen—because she fought for more than skill. She fought for something she couldn't name. Even then.
And now? She fought like a ghost returned from the grave.
He could still remember the way she looked the night he left. Asleep in the shed, curled up beside an old training staff, dirt smudged on her cheek. He hadn't even said goodbye.
He told himself it was mercy. That she'd be safer without him.
But it had never sat right.
And now, fate had looped around.
She was here. And she didn't even recognize him.
He didn't blame her.
He was taller now, broader, with sharper features from years of battle. His voice had changed. His presence had hardened. He'd buried Corwin years ago. Even buried Kael, in some ways.
Still, some part of him stirred at the idea of being seen by her again. Not as a prince. Not as a captain. But as the boy she once protected.
---
Across the training yard, Aeryn sat quietly beneath the eaves of the east tower, pretending to stretch her arm. Her breath still came fast from the sparring session.
She'd fought well—better than she had expected. But something about the hooded man unsettled her.
Not his technique. Not his authority.
His presence.
She'd felt it the moment he walked into the room. A strange familiarity. Like iron under silk.
His movements were efficient, but not cold. Sharp, but controlled. She didn't know why, but being near him made her remember the garden. The shed. The stolen hours of training in the dark.
She shook the thoughts away.
It wasn't possible. Her Little Master would be far away by now. He wouldn't be a captain in the palace. Would he?
Still, the man's voice lingered in her memory.
She tucked her chin lower into her collar and stood. There was no use dwelling on ghosts.
She was Aeron now.
A recruit. A sword. A plan.
And the captain—whoever he was—would never know her truth.
She couldn't risk that.
Not yet.