His False Mate, Her True Rise

CHAPTER9

Rowan stared at the girl in front of him with cool indifference. The courtyard had gone strangely quiet, students sensing tension thickening in the air. “Oh?” he said at last, meeting Elaine’s eyes without the slightest intention of backing down. “Am I meant to be impressed?”

“Am I wrong?” Elaine asked smoothly. Her posture remained elegant, chin lifted, expression calm enough to be insulting. Even surrounded by curious students, she looked entirely at ease. That only sharpened Rowan’s gaze.

“So this is my fault?” Rowan asked. “A deadweight refuses to rise, and I am expected to answer for it?” His tone never lifted, yet the coldness in it made several nearby students glance away. Elena flinched beside them.

“I am saying,” Elaine replied, smiling as though the exchange amused her, “that the performance of a student reflects the quality of their trainer. And from what I have seen, Senior Rowan, you have been doing poor work.” Her words were polished, but no less sharp for it.

Gasps rippled through the courtyard at once. Celeste covered her mouth in delight, while Mira looked between them as if afraid one might actually draw blood. Whispers spread quickly through the crowd, eager and hungry.

Rowan’s eyes narrowed by a fraction. “Say whatever comforts you,” he said. “We both know it is only a matter of time before she is removed like the rest of them.” He gave Elena one last unreadable glance before turning away.

He walked off without waiting for a reply, shoulders loose and unbothered. Yet something about the set of his jaw suggested otherwise. The crowd slowly began to break apart, disappointment settling over those who had wanted a louder fight.

Elena’s fists were clenched so tightly her knuckles ached. Her eyes burned, though she refused to let tears fall where anyone could see them. Once the last of the whispers drifted away, she turned sharply toward her sister.

“Is it fun?” she asked.

Elaine blinked once, genuinely confused. “What is?” she asked, as though she truly did not understand why Elena looked at her that way. Her calm only made the hurt sharper.

“Do you enjoy playing savior at my expense?” Elena asked, lifting her head. “I did not ask you to defend me. I did not ask you to step in at all.” Her voice shook, but not enough to hide the anger beneath it.

Elaine’s expression cooled immediately. “Oh, please,” she said. “As if I did it for you.” The dismissal in her voice landed harder than Rowan’s insults.

“I was protecting Father’s name,” Elaine continued. “If you feel insulted, then perhaps try harder not to remain at the bottom.” She adjusted her sleeve, perfectly composed once more.

Then she turned and walked away as neatly as she had arrived, leaving Elena standing alone with the sting of it.

Elena stood alone at the training grounds long after the others had left. Her grip on the sword was so tight that each swing rubbed the skin of her palms raw, yet she kept striking. Deadweight. Father’s name. The words echoed in her mind with every breath she took.

She swung harder, anger lending strength where her body had none. The blade crashed uselessly against the dummy again and again, sending pain through her wrists. Sweat clung to her skin, and her breathing turned ragged, but she refused to stop until her legs finally gave way beneath her.

“You swing like you expect answers from the dummy.”

The gentle voice startled her enough to make her look up. “Your Highness?” she asked breathlessly as Kael stepped into view from the path beyond the field. Evening light followed behind him, casting long shadows across the ground.

He glanced at the battered dummy, then at the sword clenched in her hand. “What has you so worked up?” he asked, his tone lighter than the concern hidden beneath it. Elena looked away at once and said nothing.

She pushed herself upright and reached for the sword again, but Kael remained where he was, waiting with infuriating patience. Silence stretched between them until it became harder to hold than the truth. Elena’s shoulders sagged slightly.

“I ranked near the bottom,” she said at last. “Elaine is in the top fifty.” Her chest rose sharply as she fought to steady her breathing. “It feels like I am the shadow and she is the sun.”

Kael’s gaze settled fully on her now. Elena kept speaking before she could lose courage.

“She shines so brightly that standing beside her only makes me disappear,” she said quietly. “She was born for greatness. Sometimes I wonder why I was born at all.”

She bent to lift the sword again, desperate to bury the words she had spoken, but Kael stepped forward and took it from her hand before she could swing. His grip was firm enough to stop her, careful enough not to hurt.

“Elaine may be the sun,” he said after a moment, his voice lower now. “Bright things are easy to notice.” Elena looked at him in surprise, unsure where he was going.

“But you are not a shadow.”

He turned the sword in his hand and offered it back hilt-first. His eyes did not leave hers.

“You are the moon,” Kael said. “You do not need to burn to be seen. Even the darkest night turns toward moonlight.” For once, Elena had no answer.

Kael’s gaze dropped to her bruised palms, and something in his chest tightened unexpectedly. The marks were fresh, angry red against her skin, proof of how hard she had pushed herself when no one was watching.

“Do not call yourself worthless again,” he said. “As long as you stand in this kingdom, you have value.” His tone was calm, but it carried a weight that made her throat tighten.

Elena swallowed hard and lowered her eyes. Hope felt dangerous, and old habits were harder to kill than pain.

“Elaine is your mate,” she said quietly. “She only enjoys being difficult. If Your Highness wishes... I can help you win her over.”

Kael went still, the words striking far deeper than they should have.

Outside the borders of the Dravon Moon Pack, three figures stood inside a dimly lit chamber where only candlelight held back the dark. Shadows crawled across the stone walls, stretching and twisting with every flicker of flame. The air smelled of iron, smoke, and something older than either. No one dared speak above a whisper.

At the center of the room, a young girl lay trembling on the cold floor. Crimson symbols had been painted around her in careful circles, still wet enough to glisten against the stone. Her breathing came fast and shallow, panic already shining in her wide eyes.

Before her stood an older man dressed in dark robes. Silver rings gleamed on his fingers as he lifted both hands and began to chant.

“Welium dracus jumthus.”

The words were ancient and jagged, scraping through the chamber like broken metal dragged across stone. As the final syllable left his mouth, the girl arched violently and screamed. Her body writhed against the floor as though something beneath her skin was being torn free by force.

The crimson markings beneath her began to bleed.

Thin streams of blood slid from the symbols and gathered at the center of the circle. They twisted together slowly, rising into the air as a narrow red cord that moved like something alive. It pulsed once, then again, fed by every cry dragged from the girl’s throat.

Tears streamed down her face as her strength gave way. Her eyes rolled back, and her body collapsed limp against the stone.

Silence returned so suddenly it felt unnatural.

The older man lowered his hands and stared at the blood-red strand curling in the air before him. It swayed gently, as though listening for a distant call. A slow smile spread across his lips.

“It is done.”