Chapter 10

  The last three days blurred into a punishing loop of training and half-sleep recovery. William and Virella pushed them harder than River thought humanly possible. By the end of each session, all three limped through the mansion halls, every stair a fresh complaint. And still they kept going. Training like their lives depended on it—because deep down, it probably did.

  Between drills, River finally cornered Virella in a sliver of quiet. He hadn’t expected much, but the question had been lodged like a splinter.

  “My mother,” he said.

  For once, Virella didn’t deflect. “I’ve begun looking,” she told him, voice low but steady. “There are whispers, nothing I’ll stake a vow on. If there’s anything to find, I’ll bring it to you first.” Thin as a reed, that promise. Still, it held him up through the bruises and the bone-deep tired.

  As for William and Virella themselves—they were unlike any mages River had seen. He’d once thought Alerus untouchable. Then he stood across from these two in the sparring yard and that belief snapped like an old bowstring. Alerus had immaculate control, book-perfect knowledge. These two had raw instinct honed on the whetstone of real battle. Maybe Kamir could rival them for strategy, even for swordwork on a good day, but in a true fight? River doubted he’d last long.

  The thought unsettled him. It also made him sharper, less willing to blink. If those two were still preparing for war, then it wasn’t over—not by half.

  Today’s focus was teamwork. William and Virella stood back-to-back in a tight defensive ring, daring the trio to break it. Any contact—a brush of sleeve, a fingertip—would count as a win. Even with numbers on their side and permission to attack at will, they still weren’t close to even landing a blow. Every strike slid was dodged. Every spell met a counter like a door slamming shut. River, Amalia, and Albert gasped for breath, while the pair in the center looked… composed. Not even sweating. Infuriating.

  William’s voice cut through the silence. “We should take a break.”

  Virella glided up the stairs with that unhurried elegance of hers. “I’ll have them prepare something to eat,” she called over her shoulder.

  River collapsed onto the sanded floorboards and let out a long, shameless groan. “Fuck me. Amalia… did you grow up like this?”

  “Kinda,” Amalia said, smirking. “It’s worse now, though.”

  The only thing steadying his hands was the grim joke that Amalia had survived training like this and still wanted seconds.

  Calira’s voice brushed his mind. “Get up, lazy.” A quick, guilty laugh followed—she’d conveniently skipped drills today. River levered himself upright using Philip’s dagger as a makeshift cane. For a heartbeat, the blade gave a faint, affronted shimmer. It wanted a fight, not balance. He buried the pull and limped on.

  He dragged his feet through the sand in a melodramatic shuffle meant purely to entertain the others.

  Albert rolled his eyes. “Come on, you’re not a cripple.”

  Amalia folded in half, laughing harder than River had heard in days. Between hiccuped giggles: “He might as well be—he’s useless in a fight!” That set them both off again, wheezing and grinning. The lull felt like stolen sunlight after a week of storms.

  “Screw you two,” River huffed, but the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him. He turned away before their laughter infected him, limping toward the stairs.

  You’re enjoying this, Calira teased.

  Shut up, he thought back, though warmth crept into his chest.

  At the top, the training-hall entrance sealed itself, the stone going smooth and pale where a doorway had been seconds before. River paused, shaking his head. Around here even the walls got the last word.

  He pressed his palm to the cool surface and felt faint runes ticking underneath—an elegant reminder that nothing in William’s estate was exactly what it looked like.

  With a final, theatrical groan, he hobbled down the corridor toward the smell of food. Even if he wasn’t going to eat, the dining seats were comfortable enough to melt in, and with luck, River would draw a bath that didn’t involve being drowned by William’s “motivational” water spells before practice started again.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He clacked the dagger along the hall like a cane and poked his head into the kitchens to beg for some bread for Calira—and maybe a scalding hot bath for himself.

  Silence hit him like a wall. Cooks and scullions stood frozen, eyes pinned to Virella in the room’s center—crimson hair over one shoulder, a sheet of parchment smoldering between her fingers as heat bled from her skin like a volcano deciding what to do next.

  River’s aches vanished in a rush of adrenaline. He crossed the tiles in three quick strides. “What’s wrong?”

  Virella didn’t answer at once. Her eyes flicked left to right, lips moving soundlessly over each line. The paper rattled. William burst through the service door behind River, and one look at his wife’s face turned his confident stride into caution.

  At last Virella lowered the parchment. Her voice came steady, tension coiled inside it like wire. “The king knows you’re here, River. A formal summons. Tonight. He wants to see what you can do—your control.”

  River blinked. That’s it? “I thought… that was the plan,” he said, half laughing. “Amalia said we’d need the crown’s support.”

  “Eventually,” William cut in, rubbing a tired hand over his jaw. “Not while you can barely stand after a spar.”

  “Court is a battlefield of its own,” Virella added, folding the letter with surgical neatness. “Every lord there plays for keeps. You enraged Beatrix simply by surviving her pet assassin. Now imagine fifty more nobles, each with knives you won’t see.”

  A cold knot formed in River’s gut. “So what do we do?”

  “Accelerate,” William said. “Training. Etiquette. Security—everything. If the king wants a demonstration, it has to look controlled, not explosive.”

  Controlled, not explosive, River repeated inwardly. Control had never been his specialty; bonding with Calira had only made the reins slip.

  Virella handed him the parchment. The golden seal bore the coiled drake of House Ironvale, undeniably royal. “Read,” she said. “Then take a bath. No more sparring today. Etiquette for you.”

  Heat throbbed under River’s skin as he stared at the seal. Somewhere, Calira whispered: Strength and confidence, two sides of the same coin. And you’ve got a phoenix, so you’d better act like it—don’t embarrass us.

  Comforting? Not exactly. But it was enough to make him nod.

  Virella snapped her fingers in front of his face, popping the bubble of his thoughts. “Go. A bath is already being drawn. We don’t have time to waste.”

  River nodded, wordless, worry gnawing under his ribs. If the king knew he was here, how many others did too? More assassins could already be watching.

  He moved through the corridors like a ghost, barely seeing the tapestries or the soft lamps. Albert intercepted him halfway up the stairs. “Where are you going?”

  River didn’t pause. “The king wants to see me.”

  Flat voice, no ornament. He vanished up the steps. In his room, he undressed and slid into the steaming bath. For a moment the heat felt like it could dissolve the weight pressing his shoulders. Until Calira emerged.

  She stepped from the phoenix tattoo on his back, the red-haired girl suddenly solid, barefoot at the tub’s edge, arms crossed, ember-bright eyes taking inventory. River froze, face going scarlet. “Bird form. Now. That’s creepy.”

  She blinked, visibly stung. “I’m not creepy,” she muttered.

  His heart sank. She hadn’t meant to rattle him. “Sorry. You just—caught me off guard.”

  Without further protest she shimmered and folded into feathers; the phoenix perched beside the rim, warm and watchful. River exhaled and slid lower into the water. Somehow that helped. Calira’s quiet presence. The heat. For the first time in days, actual silence. No shouting, no pain, no flames or flying steel.

  Just… stillness.

  It didn’t last. William’s voice cut through it like a blade. “Let’s go. Virella needs you.”

  River stood, resigned, and dried off. He pulled on something less battle-scarred—almost formal—and tied his damp hair back. In the mirror the faint golden glow still threaded his veins. He breathed out and told his reflection, “Strength and confidence. Two sides of the same coin… Right, Calira?”

  Her answer came smug and warm in his head. And you’ve got a phoenix. So strut like you mean it.

  He needed to show no weakness. Court was a predator’s den—hesitate and you’d get torn like a wounded deer. Obvious, but it helped to say it.

  When he came downstairs, Virella waited at the dining table, posture perfect, eyes like needles. “All right,” she said. “Sit. Manners.”

  River obeyed. The tone had shifted: regal, precise. Not training anymore. Survival prep.

  He wouldn’t be eating; that wasn’t the exercise. The point was to avoid offending anyone in a room where offense could be fatal. “No elbows on the table,” Virella said. “Feet flat, back straight.” He nodded, absorbing each instruction like dry earth drinking rain.

  “You do not look the king in the eyes unless addressed. You do not speak unless spoken to. Bow when introduced—low, but not too low. Never offer your hand first. Any questions go through his Steward. And for the love of the gods, do not fidget.” The rules stacked fast, a storm of small knives. He tried to anchor each one, but they tangled.

  He wasn’t ready. Time did not care.

  Virella stood, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve. “That’s the best we’re going to manage. We have to go.”

  River rose with her, jaw set, heart hammering. He followed outside into night air, cool against his still-damp hair.

  The same carriage waited—the one from days ago that now felt like a past life. As he climbed in, he glanced back at the estate. So much had changed. Not enough. The velvet seat took him as the door thudded shut and the wheels groaned into motion.

  All he could do now was hope. Would the king be like Virella and William? Or like Beatrix?

  Despite his bruised hands, River clenched his fists.