ERON
My arms screamed traitor with every heartbeat as I hefted the practice sword for the trillion-billionth time. Sweat traced constellations down my spine—the only astronomically interesting thing about me at the moment—while my lungs begged for mercy with each controlled breath. Control. Always control. The sacred mantra of the Wolf King, probably etched into his bones alongside ancient runes and the recipe for perfect intimidation.
"Again," Roel commanded, his blade capturing twilight with insulting elegance. "Your form is deteriorating, young prince."
I bit the inside of my cheek until copper bloomed across my tongue and forced myself through the sequence one more excruciating time. High guard (shoulders plotting rebellion), side step (ankles threatening mutiny), feint (fingers gon
