The yard behind the western stables had never been meant for royalty.

  It was a place for broken tack, stubborn horses, and soldiers who preferred dirt under their boots to marble beneath their knees. The stones of the outer wall loomed close and unadorned, their age visible in every crack and stain. No banners hung here. No herald announced names. The wind carried the smell of hay, iron, and old sweat—honest things, unbeautiful things.

  Cristina liked it for that reason.

  She stood near the center of the yard, boots planted wide, chest heaving beneath a sweat-darkened linen shirt. Her riding trousers clung to her thighs, dust streaking the fabric where she had fallen once already. Her hair, normally immaculate, had escaped its tie and clung to her face and neck in damp curls.

  Her sword felt impossibly heavy.

  Across from her, Ernesto Montclef regarded her with the same expression he wore on campaign—measured, unsentimental, unyielding. His practice blade rested loosely in his grip, but Cristina knew better than to mistake looseness for ease. He had the look of a man who could move from stillness to violence without wasting a breath.

  “You’re dragging your back foot,” Ernesto said.

  Cristina tightened her jaw. “I’m tired.”

  “So is everyone who dies,” he replied, and stepped forward.

  Steel cracked against steel.

  Cristina barely got her blade up in time. The impact jarred her arms all the way to her shoulders, and she stumbled back half a step, boots skidding in the dirt.

  “Again,” Ernesto said, already advancing.

  She swung—too slow, too wide. He turned the strike aside effortlessly and tapped her ribs with the flat of his blade.

  “Dead,” he said.

  She hissed and adjusted her stance. “You enjoy this.”

  “I enjoy you living,” Ernesto replied, and pressed her again.

  Their blades met and slid, scraping sparks of frustration from Cristina’s nerves. She parried high, instinctively protecting her head the way courtly fencing had taught her.

  Ernesto punished her instantly—his blade struck her thigh, then her hip.

  “Dead twice,” he said. “Stop fencing like a lady.”

  “I am a lady,” she snapped, breath coming hard.

  “You are an empress,” he corrected. “Which means they won’t give you the courtesy of rules.”

  Cristina retreated, anger rising hot and sharp in her chest. She hated this part—the way her body betrayed her will, the way her arms shook no matter how tightly she clenched her hands.

  She hated failing.

  “Again,” she said, raising her blade.

  Ernesto studied her for a moment longer than necessary. He saw the tremor in her grip. The tightness around her eyes. He also saw something else—something he’d seen in young recruits who came back for more after their first beating.

  Resolve.

  He attacked harder.

  Cristina barely blocked the first strike. The second knocked her sword aside completely, forcing her to twist and recover awkwardly.

  “Plant your feet,” Ernesto barked.

  “I am—”

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  “No, you’re bracing. That’s fear.”

  His blade snapped toward her shoulder. She parried late, wood slamming into wood with a jolt that made her teeth click.

  “You think I’m afraid?” she shouted.

  “I think you don’t trust yourself,” he replied calmly.

  The words hit harder than the blade.

  Cristina lunged, reckless now, frustration bleeding into motion. She overextended. Ernesto stepped aside and hooked her ankle with his foot.

  She went down hard.

  The impact knocked the air from her lungs in a humiliating rush. Dirt smeared her cheek. Her sword skidded away, clattering uselessly against stone.

  For a moment, she lay there, staring at the sky through the narrow strip of yard, chest burning, eyes stinging.

  Anger welled up—hot, ugly, and close to tears.

  “Get up,” Ernesto said.

  She didn’t move.

  “I said get up.”

  Cristina clenched her fists. “You don’t understand.”

  Ernesto’s voice hardened. “Then make me.”

  She pushed herself upright, fury trembling through her limbs. “I’m not a soldier. I didn’t grow up with a blade in my hands. Every time I fail, it’s because I’m learning from nothing!”

  Ernesto stepped closer. “You’re learning from instinct.”

  “My instinct is to protect my child,” she snapped. “Not to stand here being knocked into the dirt like some—”

  “Like someone who is still alive,” Ernesto interrupted.

  Cristina’s eyes flashed. “You think this makes me strong?”

  “I think this gives you choices,” he said.

  She laughed bitterly. “Choices? Against assassins? Against monsters? Against men who have killed more people than I can count?”

  “Yes,” Ernesto said. “Between dying helplessly and dying fighting.”

  The words struck her silent.

  She bent, retrieved her sword with shaking hands, and raised it again.

  “Gregor would forbid this,” she said quietly.

  Ernesto’s jaw tightened. “I know.”

  “He would call it reckless.”

  “Yes.”

  “He would say I’m risking myself for pride.”

  Ernesto met her gaze. “And he would be wrong.”

  Cristina’s throat tightened. “You’re betraying him.”

  “I am,” Ernesto said without flinching. “And I will carry that guilt gladly if it keeps you alive.”

  For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

  Then Ernesto raised his blade again. “Come.”

  This time, Cristina did not rush.

  She breathed.

  She remembered the way Ernesto shifted before striking. The way his shoulders told the truth before his blade did.

  He attacked.

  She blocked—cleaner this time.

  Their blades slid. She stepped in instead of back, surprising both of them. Ernesto adjusted instantly, but not before she managed to shove his blade aside and tap his chest with her pommel.

  It wasn’t strong.

  It wasn’t pretty.

  But it was hers.

  They froze.

  Cristina stared at him, eyes wide. “Did that count?”

  Ernesto exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

  Something broke loose in her chest—a laugh, breathless and disbelieving. “Gods.”

  Her arms sagged.

  Ernesto lowered his sword. “You’re angry when you fail,” he said. “Good. Anger teaches faster than fear.”

  She wiped sweat from her brow with a shaking hand. “I hate how weak I am.”

  “You’re not weak,” he replied. “You’re untrained.”

  “That feels like the same thing,” she said.

  “It isn’t,” Ernesto said firmly. “Weakness is refusing to stand back up.”

  Cristina looked at her bruised hands, at the dirt ground into her clothes. “I don’t want to be brave,” she said softly. “I want to be ready.”

  Ernesto nodded. “Then you will sweat. You will bleed. And you will fail many more times.”

  She grimaced. “That’s not encouraging.”

  He allowed himself a rare, thin smile. “It’s honest.”

  They resumed.

  Again and again.

  Cristina failed more often than she succeeded. She cursed when she missed blocks. She slammed her blade into the dirt when her wrists gave out. Once, she nearly threw the sword entirely, fury shaking her shoulders.

  “I know what you’re about to do!” she shouted after another humiliating disarm. “And I still can’t stop it!”

  “Because knowing isn’t enough,” Ernesto said. “Your body has to learn it too.”

  “And how long does that take?” she demanded.

  Ernesto didn’t answer immediately. He watched her breathing, the way she favored her left side when exhausted.

  “Longer than we have,” he said finally. “But long enough to matter.”

  At last, when her legs shook too badly to continue and her grip failed entirely, Ernesto raised his hand.

  “Enough.”

  Cristina sagged against the wall, sliding down until she sat in the dirt, head tipped back, eyes closed. Sweat soaked her hairline. Her hands trembled uncontrollably.

  “I hate this,” she muttered.

  Ernesto leaned his sword against the wall and joined her, lowering himself with a grunt. “So did I.”

  She cracked one eye open. “You?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “The first time I realized no one was coming to save me,” he said quietly.

  Cristina stared at the sky again. “I won’t be helpless,” she whispered. “Not again. Not ever.”

  Ernesto closed his eyes for a moment, guilt and resolve warring in his chest.

  "Do you know why I defy Gregor? he asked.

  She merely shook her head.

  Ernesto smiled slightly before continuing. "I love Gregor. I will die for him if the need arises. I truly believe he is the man our empire needs. Even if he does not see it, I believe you and the prince must become part of the fight. All the darkness surrounding us, threatening to snuff out the light, is not something that we will conquer anytime soon. No, I fear we will be at war for many years to come. We will all be called upon soon enough I'm afraid. This is why I risk so much. For the empires future."

  “We’ll continue,” he said at last. “Quietly. Carefully.”

  She smiled faintly, exhausted and unbroken. “Good.”

  Beyond the yard, unseen and unaware, the imperial towers rose in silent judgment—holding secrets, love, and a truth that would one day demand to be faced.

  But for now, steel rang beneath silk.

  And an empress learned how not to fall.