Alban nods.
“May I see him?”
“You probably could,” he answers, his voice naturally gruff.
Alban turns, and I follow him. He doesn’t speak as he leads me down several lengthy corridors. I think about the letter tucked away in my cloak, and I think about Mazaline.
What will she say?
What excuse will she offer for what she did to me?
Surely, she’s responsible.
At last, Alban swings open a door at the rear of the palace, revealing a massive training ground. It is surrounded by imposing walls that soar into the sky. Intricate carvings engrave each one, etching summers of history into every stone.
A tall, wide oak tree grows in the center of the training ground, its long, twisted branches, providing patches of shade. Stations surround the tree, each equipped with weapon racks, targets, and training dummies.
As I walk next to Alban, the sound of clashing blades and grunts of exertion fill the air. I sweep my gaze over the warriors, looking for Jasce. Near the far corner, I spot him.
He trains bare-chested, sweat glistening on his skin, his every movement fluid and purposeful. Aleksander spars with him, equally shirtless.
My heart quickens with every strike, and I flinch when Aleksander launches an attack, only to be countered by Jasce.
The men continue, engaging in a fierce sparring match, their wooden practice swords clashing in the morning air, their movements a blur of precision and athleticism. Aleksander, though quick and agile, finds himself continually thwarted by Jasce’s superior strength and speed.
As the sun blinks between the clouds, Jasce unleashes a counterattack with a ferocity that leaves no room for hesitation. His strikes are swift and powerful, carrying an intensity that Aleksander struggles to match.
Determination sparks in Jasce’s eyes as he slams his practice sword into Aleksander’s, and it flies from the younger man’s grip and lands on the ground. Jasce steps back, allowing his brother to scramble for his weapon.
Jasce’s attention shifts to me, locking as I shift my weight.
“That’s all for now,” he says to Aleksander.
Aleksander grins. “Are you quitting before I can show you how to properly strike your opponents?”
“Yes.” Jasce lowers his sword into a nearby weapon rack and moves to where I stand next to Alban.
I stare, my mouth slightly parted at the sweat covering his chest. It heightens every muscle, every line, every hard edge. Heat sparks through my veins as I imagine spreading my hands over his chest and feeling him beneath my fingertips.
Would he mind?
“What do you want?” he asks, his tone barely civil.
Embarrassment floods my face as I snap my mouth closed.
“Alban,” Jasce says as he keeps his eyes on me. “You may go.”
The guard nods and walks away.
Jasce takes my arm and leads me out of earshot of everyone. “What do you need, Annora?”
I reach into my cloak and pull free the missive and hand it to him. He opens it and stares down at it for several long breaths.
“I need to go to the city, so I can speak to her,” I muster after a moment of unbearable silence.
Jasce’s jaw tics as he folds the letter and hands it back to me. “I will take you.”
* * *
