“Again."
Steel clashed in the dusk courtyard as Ethan dropped into a low stance, sweat gleaming on his neck.
His sparring partner hesitated. “Your Highness, your arm—"
“I said again."
The knight lunged. Ethan deflected, twisted, and struck—hard enough to send the man sprawling.
Gasps echoed from the edges. Court onlookers had gathered on balconies, pretending to admire the moonrise. But their eyes were on the blood-slick prince, sleeves torn, breathing wild.
“He's pushing too hard."
“He hasn't slept."
“He's unraveling."
In truth, Ethan was fraying.
The ritual steadiness he'd gained with Xiluo's presence had dulled the worst of his episodes, but not the gnawing under his skin. Not the whispers. Not the need to prove control.
He turned to the weapons rack, grabbed another blade.
