Chains of the Forgotten Princess

The night was colder than usual, wrapping the citadel in a hush so deep it felt like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Somewhere above, the palace slept—or pretended to. Down here, beneath stone and silence, the old sparring arena waited like a secret.

Elira stood at its edge.

The shadows danced along the curve of her blade, torchlight flickering against steel. This place—Kael had shown it to her once. Long ago, before alliances, before broken thrones and stolen crowns. Back when silence between them meant something else entirely.

Now, that silence broke.

"You're trembling," Kael said behind her.

"I'm not." She didn't even turn. Her fingers gripped the hilt tightly, even as sweat beaded along her brow.

Kael stepped closer, his boots quiet on the stone. The collar of his tunic hung loose from training, revealing bruises along his shoulder—marks that told their own stories. Still, he moved like someone who didn't mind pain. Like someone who had learned to master it.

"You're thinking too much," he said softly.

Elira finally exhaled, lowering the blade just an inch. "You dragged me out of bed at midnight to lecture me?"

He smirked. "No. I dragged you here to remind you what you're made of."

She scoffed. "Because I nearly set a mountain on fire?"

"No," he said, gentler now. "Because you're scared of what's coming."

That landed. Harder than any blade.

"I'm not scared," she muttered.

"You should be."

Their eyes met, and the space between them shifted. Heavy now. Full of all the things they never said—his guilt, her grief, the fragile string that kept their bloodlines bound in prophecy and ashes.

Kael picked up a second blade and tossed it toward her.

"Show me."

She caught it easily. Her gaze sharpened. "You want to spar now?"

"I want to see if the girl who shattered the Binding Throne still remembers how to fight without magic."

She didn't answer. The sound of their blades clashing spoke louder.

They moved fast—faster than memory. Muscle remembered what doubt had tried to bury. Strike. Parry. Step. Twist. Elira let her instincts lead, letting the sword sing through the air. Kael didn't hold back, but he didn't push her too far either. His attacks came steady, precise, like he was studying her more than testing her.

Their blades sparked with every blow, metal biting metal, sweat gliding down her back. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she wouldn't stop. Wouldn't give him that.

"Still think I'm trembling?" she gasped between strikes.

Kael laughed under his breath. "Not anymore."

But then the rhythm changed.

With a twist of his wrist, he knocked the sword from her grip. It clattered across the floor. She reacted on instinct—dropped low, sweeping her leg beneath his.

He stumbled.

Recovered.

And when he stood again, something else flickered in his eyes.

Not just admiration.

Something hungrier.

"You've gotten stronger," he said, voice low, stepping in close.

"Not because of you," she shot back.

He didn't argue.

They were too close now. Her chest rose and fell in sharp breaths. His hand brushed her wrist—barely there—but she felt it like fire.

It wasn't fear that froze her.

It was everything else.

The wanting.

The ache buried beneath months of silence, betrayal, tension, longing.

But she stepped back first.

"I came to train," she said, steadying herself.

"And you did."

"Then I'm leaving."

"Elira—"

She turned before he could finish.

"I know what you're doing," she said quietly.

Kael blinked. "Do you?"

"You're trying to care," she whispered. "Trying to make this mean something."

His voice softened. "Doesn't it?"

She didn't answer.

Couldn't.

Not when her heart beat like war drums in her chest. Not when the memory of everything he'd done—not done—still cut deeper than steel.

So she walked. Not hurried. Not unsure. Just done—for now.

Elsewhere…

Lady Vyra stood in the Hall of Blood, her gaze fixed on the ancient tapestry that whispered of wars long past.

"Did she destroy the throne?" asked the cloaked figure beside her.

"She did," Vyra said. Her tone was calm. Calculated. "And the magic answered her."

The figure stiffened. "Then the storm is no longer coming. It's here."

Vyra's lips curved, but it wasn't a smile. Not really.

"Good," she said. "Let it come."

Later That Night…

Sleep didn't find Elira.

She sat by the window, the moonlight wrapping her in silver. Her fingertips grazed the bruises forming along her wrists—reminders of a spar she hadn't planned to want… with a man she hadn't planned to need.

Beside her, her mother's old journal lay open. Its pages yellowed, ink faded but sharp.

"Power comes with pain. Always. But love… love is the wound that never heals."

A soft knock broke the silence.

She stiffened.

"Who is it?"

Kael's voice came quietly. "It's me."

She hesitated, heart stammering. Then opened the door.

He stood there—not in armor, not in pride—but holding something small in his hand.

A glass vial. Glowing red.

"What's that?" she asked.

"A memory potion," he said. "From the Temple of Elarion."

Her breath caught. "You stole from the temple?"

"I borrowed it. For you."

She didn't take it. Just stared.

"What memory?"

Kael's eyes dropped. "The day your mother died. I think… you deserve to remember it. All of it."

Tears welled before she could stop them. She blinked hard, refusing to let them fall.

"Why now?" she asked.

"Because you deserve truth," he said softly. "And because I'm done keeping things from you."

Elira looked down at the vial. The glow pulsed softly, like a heartbeat.

Then she whispered, "Will you stay… while I drink it?"

Kael nodded once. "Always."

And for the first time in a long, chaotic, unraveling stretch of time, Elira let him in.

Not just through the door.

But deeper.

Where it mattered.