Ruins And Royalty

Fire and Fight - Chp 6 Part 2

I stood before the vast amphitheater, its towering arches and solemn grandeur pressing down on me like a weight. Drawing in a steadying breath, I lifted my chin and stepped forward, determined not to falter. I prayed my presence would slip by unnoticed. After the shame of that public quarrel, and my absence these past days, invisibility would have been a mercy.

Truth be told, I would rather have continued training alone, away from judging eyes and whispered opinions. But a promise is not so easily ignored, especially one made to Zander. So here I was, retracing my steps into the arena.

The good fortune of distraction was mine; the competitors were already deep in their drills, their focus turned inward, sparing me the sting of unwanted stares. Yet one gaze did find me. The bright, unguarded emeralds I had been seeking without even realizing it. Zander.

After what had passed between us at the dome overlooking the ocean, something unspoken lingered, binding us closer. In him, I had revealed more of myself than I ever had to anyone.

More care, more vulnerability, more truth.

And he, the young Prince of Yarrow, had entrusted me with his deepest dread: that he was forced into this divine game, and that the shadow of death stalked him with every step.

When I reached him, his expression softened, a quiet light flickering across his face.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, his voice low, carrying more meaning than the words alone could hold.

I couldn’t help but take in Zander’s armor, each piece seeming almost sculpted from sunlight itself. The breastplate clung to him like molten gold, etched with intricate patterns that spoke of both artistry and war. It followed the contours of his torso perfectly, emphasizing the broadness of his shoulders and the firm definition of his chest. The crossed straps over his chest weren’t just functional. They framed him, drawing attention to the way his muscles shifted beneath, as if the armor itself had been forged to honor his form.

The gauntlets hugged his wrists and forearms snugly, accentuating the strength in his grip as he held that bow with casual command. There was a rhythm to his stance, a silent promise of the power he could unleash with just a flex of those limbs.

The fabric beneath the armor was a muted, earthy brown, soft and flowing, contrasting the rigid strength above. It draped around him like a river of shadow, cinched at the waist to highlight the narrow line of his midsection before spilling into the pleated skirt of his battle attire. The cloak over his shoulders fell like a dark wave, framing him, lending a certain regality to the raw strength already evident in the polished armor.

Even the bow, held loosely in one hand, seemed like an extension of him, a weapon made to fit seamlessly with the sculpted power of his arms and the commanding presence he exuded. Standing there, he looked less like a man and more like a living statue, a storm contained within gold and leather, poised for action yet impossible to ignore.

This was the first time I was really seeing him passed the boy he once was. I saw him as a man, as a warrior despite being taller and slightly broader than him.

Zander stood poised with a magnificent recurve bow of maple wood, its limbs carved with intricate pattern work that seemed almost alive beneath the light. Etched along the curve, ancient runes glimmered faintly, the enchantment woven into its core.

Strapped across his back was a leather quiver, crafted to match the bow’s design, each line and motif echoing the same artistry. A handful of arrows rested within, feathers gleaming like brushed silk.

“I am a man of my word,” I said with formality, and he acknowledged me with a slight nod. Yet my attention clung to the weapon in his hand as he moved among the other archers, speaking to them with an ease that was his own. Their bows were nothing more than simple lemonwood. Functional and somewhat plain. None bore the beauty, nor the power, of his.

He caught me staring, my curiosity written plainly on my face. A quiet laugh escaped him.

“The blacksmiths of Freyah forge only one enchanted weapon of each kind,” he explained, his voice carrying both pride and humility. “I was fortunate enough to be chosen to bear this one.”

“I see,” I murmured, looking away though the truth lingered. I rarely needed explanations. Yet around magic, I felt disarmed, a child fumbling in shadows far older than myself.

“Would you like me to show you?” Zander’s tone shifted. It was light, teasing almost as he extended the bow before him, pride gleaming in his emerald eyes.

“Indeed,” I replied, my curiosity outweighing restraint. “But indulge me first, what sets this bow apart from the rest?”

His gaze glistened as he drew a hand along the engraved lines, tracing them as though reacquainting himself with something sacred. “It lends greater speed, greater power to an arrow,” he said slowly, reverently. “But it is not the strength that binds me to it. Tt is the enchantment itself. That is what makes it truly mine.”

He spoke with a spark in his voice, alive with enthusiasm for the weapon and the magic bound within it. It was clear enough, Zander was no stranger to sorcery. Unlike me, who still felt foreign to its touch. He not only understood it but delighted in it.

“And what is the enchantment?” I pressed. My curiosity lacked insistent, but I asked because I saw how much it meant to him, because I wanted to know the things that stirred his spirit.

“I would love to show you,” he admitted, glancing around the amphitheater as though measuring the risk, “but this isn’t the place.”

“It’s that dangerous?” I teased.

“The enchantment creates fire,” he said with a crooked smile. “Unless I want the amphitheater to go up in flames, I’ll have to show you somewhere else.”

The warmth of his grin pulled something from me before I could resist. Laughter, unbidden, rising from deep inside. His ease was magnetic, and I felt myself caught in it, smiling back at him as though the world could not intrude.

But the world intruded.

A sudden flash cut across my vision, white-hot and merciless. My body moved before my mind could catch it, feet driving me back, chest tightening with the surge of instinct. The sound came a heartbeat later: steel biting stone. A double-edged blade quivered in the ground where I had stood only moments before, its weight humming like a predator’s breath.

My gaze locked on the hand gripping the hilt. Fingers taut, veins alive with malice. I followed the arm upward, across the shoulders, until I found the face: a devious smile carved beneath cropped crimson hair, eyes glinting with cruel amusement.

Kalmin’s warning in the Royal Bathhouse came rushing back to me, about Prince Mykhailo and his cursed blade, but what I saw wasn’t an enchantment unleashed, only the cruel glare of light glancing off steel and burning across my face. Even so, the double-edged sword in the dirt was no ordinary weapon; the same ancient runes carved along its length sang of magic, the same language etched into Zander’s bow and the Chakrams I had seen before.

“If I’d used the enchantment, you’d already be dead,” Mykhailo sneered, laughter rumbling dark and sharp as he wrenched the blade from the earth.

By the Gods. Not this insufferable prick again.

Humiliation prickled at me. I’d had enough of magical weapons making a spectacle of me. At least this time I had not fallen flat on my back like I had against the Princess of Bellefey. I had dodged him. Barely.

Stumbling backward and arms flailing, I still looked like a fool. Fury simmered hot in my chest.

“Swinging your sword outside a battle circle is forbidden, Mykah,” Zander snapped, his voice edged with anger at the recklessness.

“Calm yourself, Zander. I have perfect aim,” Mykhailo replied, utterly unbothered, as if he’d done no wrong.

The arrogance only fueled me. It wasn’t just the attack, it was his entire attitude, his smirk, his careless cruelty.

“Your aim isn’t the problem,” I shot back, voice cutting sharp. “I’m simply quicker on my feet.”

That struck. His smile soured, his jaw tightening as he closed the space between us with slow, deliberate steps.

“You’ve a loud tongue for someone who lost to a Princess,” he spat, eyes glinting with scorn.

“And you,” I answered, steady and unyielding, “creeping from behind and swinging like a coward. You’ve no room to talk.”

Each word landed like a blade of my own, meant to cut deep.

He could mock me for that lost fight all he wanted, but the truth was he had never faced me himself. That day was no measure of my skill, nor did it reflect the years I had bled into training. He had no idea of the pain I’d pushed through, days when my muscles trembled so violently I could hardly stand, when my bones felt heavier than stone, yet I pressed on, always beyond my limits.

“What did you just call me?” Prince Mykhailo growled, stepping in until his face nearly touched mine. His fists bunched into my tunic, twisting the fabric tight across my chest.

“Did I stutter?” I shot back, teeth clenched, voice low and defiant.

We stood like two bulls, horns lowered, the air between us crackling with the promise of violence. My hands planted firmly against his chest and I shoved hard, the force surprising him enough that he stumbled back a step. His grip tore free of my shirt, but in an instant, he straightened, his lips curling into a snarl as his fists balled at his sides.

He came at me again, arm twitching, ready to swing. Instinct pulled me into a fighting stance, weight shifting on my feet, blood roaring hot in my ears. For a heartbeat, I wanted nothing more than to let him try, to prove myself here and now.

“Kei-o!”

The command split the air like a whip. An arrow screamed past, close enough to graze the space between us. In the same breath a yellow light burst into flame at our feet, the fire cracking outward before vanishing in a hiss of smoke.

Both of us recoiled at once, our feud forgotten in the sudden flash. Mykhailo’s fist hovered, then slowly lowered. My heart thundered in my chest, the afterglow of the fire searing the ground where we had stood ready to tear each other apart.

“Are you finished?” Zander’s voice cut like a reprimand, his bow still drawn, another arrow nocked and ready.

“We’re done,” the redhead exhaled, his tone begrudging. I turned my eyes away, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of my glare.

“For now,” I muttered low enough for only Mykhailo to hear, venom lacing every word.

“Good,” Zander replied, his face hard as stone. “Because that was only a warning shot.” He eased his grip, lowering the bow. With measured calm, he slid the arrow back into his quiver.

All around us, eyes clung to the scene. Onlookers, and among them my siblings: Kalmin, Saurora, and Dayron. Their presence made my gut tighten. This display wouldn’t stay here long; it would reach my mother and father before nightfall.

“What is the meaning of this disturbance?” a voice thundered.

We all turned. Sir Damos stood rigid with fury, Princess Isalyn at his side, her eyes sharp and assessing. The weight of their gaze was heavier than any blade.

I braced myself, ready to cast the blame where it belonged... on Mykhailo’s reckless swordplay, but before I could speak, a sudden grip clamped the back of my neck. The violent tug yanked me backward.

I twisted, teeth bared, only to meet Dayron’s steely glare. His hand slid from my neck to seize my upper arm in an iron grasp, fingers digging in as though he meant to bruise.

“Sir Damos,” he said formally, his voice steady but edged with rage, “allow me to discipline this one myself.”

“I would like an explanation first,” Sir Damos demanded, his voice sharp as steel. His hand shot out, seizing Mykhailo by the arm and dragging him forward. Zander, on the other hand, stepped toward him willingly, bow still at his side in a gesture of restraint.

“You have no right to touch me,” Mykhailo snapped, wrenching against the grip. “I will have my Father-”

“Have what?” Sir Damos roared, his face twisting with fury. “That you nearly impaled another student outside the battle circle? That you disgrace your station by swinging your sword like a child with a toy? I do not fear the spoiled threats of a Royal, boy. Tell your Father what you will. Tell him your recklessness is far more troublesome than your enemies.”

The Prince of Palisade faltered, his jaw clenched, though his pride would not let him bow his head.

“I apologize for my behavior,” Zander interjected calmly, his voice measured and deliberate. He stood tall, the only one of us who seemed entirely composed.

“He has nothing to do with this,” I cut in quickly, unwilling to let him take blame. “Zander only tried to stop the fight. If anyone is guilty, it’s Mykhailo. Deal with him as you must.”

“No one is excused here,” Dayron’s voice thundered from beside me, still gripping my arm like a vice. “Especially not you, brother.”

Sir Damos’s gaze burned over each of us in turn, his fury tempered only by his sense of justice. “You are Princes, heirs, and warriors meant to uphold honor, not squabble like alley dogs in front of the entire amphitheater. You shame yourselves and those who raised you. And you,” his eyes locked on me, cutting like daggers, “should know better than to bait another into violence when you are already under scrutiny.”

His words felt like a lash across the back, but he did not relent.

“Mark this moment well,” Sir Damos continued, his tone final. “The next time any of you draw steel outside the battle circle, you will answer to me, not as nobles, but as combatants. And I promise you, none of you will walk away unscathed.”

The amphitheater fell into silence, every pair of eyes still fixed on us.