My footwork is precise, honed from hours of practice. I move fast, light on my feet, slipping into the close-quarters combat that suits my smaller frame. I may be shorter and leaner than most here, but my muscles are defined, built for speed and efficiency. Where others rely on brute force, I focus on technique—slipping past defences, striking in quick, and what I hope are devastating, bursts.
Heat builds in my limbs, sweat slicking my skin as I lose myself in the rhythm of the fight.
Jab. Slice. Pivot.
A feint, followed by a deep slash—my dagger catching the dummy’s “neck” in a brutal finishing move.
I exhale, stretching my arms and neck, before reaching for the hem of my shirt and pulling it over my head. The cool air hits my skin, but it does little to chase away the heat burning beneath. I toss my shirt onto a nearby bench, stretching briefly before resetting my stance—only to hear a sharp snort of laughter behind me.
“Should’ve known the royal guard had a type.”
I still, my grip tightening on my dagger before I turn.
Zeyv.
Of course it’s Zeyv.
His species—something between reptilian and humanoid—gives him an unsettling, scaled appearance. His elongated pupils gleam in the midday light, forked tongue flicking briefly as he smirks.
I don’t bother to hide my irritation. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
His grin widens, showing serrated teeth. “Small. Pretty. Obedient.”
A few of the others nearby pause in their training, sensing the tension.
I arch a brow. “You clearly don’t know shit about me if you think obedient is anywhere on the list.”
Zeyv shrugs his thick shoulders. “Not what I heard. Word is, you’ve been getting real cosy with the prince’s pet.”
Gossip travels fast. Too fast. And it’s clear that despite Varek’s efforts to keep the prince’s presence quiet, the community knows.
I exhale sharply, forcing my stance to stay relaxed. If I react too quickly, I lose.
Zeyv circles me slowly, watching. “Didn’t think a Riftborn would be so quick to roll over and become some royal lapdog.”
And fuck if I didn’t think the same thing earlier about Kael.Ouch. Talk about having my words thrown back in my face. My blood boils, but I keep my face blank. Because I know exactly what Zeyv is trying to do.
And fuck him. I’m not giving him the satisfaction.
The tension thickens like a brewing storm, the air practically vibrating with it. Around us, a few more fighters pause in their training, turning just enough to catch the exchange without making it obvious they’re paying attention. Some pretend tostretch, others busy themselves with adjusting weapons, but I see the sideways glances, the subtle shifts of weight.
Zeyv circles me like a predator sizing up prey, but I don’t move, just watch him with a bored expression. I’ve dealt with enough arrogant pricks to know exactly how to handle one.
“Roll over?” I repeat, tilting my head slightly. “Interesting choice of words. You spend a lot of time imagining me on my back, Zeyv?”
The low murmur of interest from our audience is immediate. A few let out short, surprised huffs—half amusement, half intrigue.
Zeyv’s smirk twists, his forked tongue flicking briefly. His species—whatever the hell it actually is—doesn’t blush per se, but the darkening of his scales at his throat makes it clear my words landed. “I wouldn’t touch you if I was starving and you were the last scrap of meat left in a dying dimension,” he sneers.
I place a hand over my chest in mock devastation. “You wound me.” Then I glance at his stance, the way his muscles coil, the irritation leaking through his usually cocky posture. “Wait—you are starving, aren’t you?” I add, my tone dripping with false realisation. “For attention, I mean. And what, you thought I’d be an easy target? You really don’t know me at all.”
His pupils slit further, his tail flicking behind him in agitation.
Yeah, I hit a nerve.
“I know you,” he snaps, stepping closer. “Varek’s little project. The runt he scooped up and decided to play favourites with.”
Ah. There it is.
