A cold, predatory smirk twisted Prince Dominic's lips as he watched Viviana take her place in the sparring circle.
What are you hiding, Lady Viviana?
He thought, his blue eyes narrowed with suspicion.
All that false modesty, that feigned clumsiness. It's a mask and I know it. Let's see if you can still pretend when a sharp blade is aimed at your throat.
Viviana caught his smirk from across the dusty arena. A flicker of resolve hardened her own gaze for an instant before she smoothed her expression back into one of nervous apprehension. "Smirk all you want", she thought, her hands gripping the cool leather of her dagger hilts. "Your day will come. And when it's your time, I will give my all to ending you permanently. But today… today we play it your way ."
She and the recruit, Joran, took their stances. Joran, puffed up with a mixture of fear and pride at being chosen, held his short sword somewhat stiffly. Viviana settled into a low, agile crouch, her twin daggers held in a defensive, reverse grip, ready to block and parry. The entire training ground had fallen silent, the other recruits forming a wide, watchful circle. From the viewing platform, Lilliana clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles were white.
"Begin!" Dominic's voice bellowed, echoing across the grounds.
With a nervous battle cry, Joran lunged forward. His attack was a straightforward, powerful downward slash. It was clumsy, relying on brute strength rather than technique, and Viviana, despite her intention to appear unskilled, sidestepped it with an ease that was almost insulting. She made the movement look like a lucky stumble, catching her balance at the last second.
Clank!
Joran's sword met her crossed daggers as she blocked a wild swing aimed at her side. The impact jarred her arms, but she held firm.
"Come on, Joran! She is but a woman!" one of the other recruits foolishly shouted, earning a glare from Dominic that instantly silenced him.
Viviana began a carefully constructed movement of incompetence. She fought defensively, exclusively on the back foot, her movements deliberately awkward. She would parry a blow with a movement that seemed panicked, her footwork would appear uncertain and unbalanced, causing her to "trip" just out of range of a sweeping cut. She allowed Joran to press the attack, to look like the dominant fighter, while she, with a great deal of what appeared to be frantic luck, managed to avoid every truly dangerous blow. Her twin daggers became a whirling, desperate defense, deflecting and redirecting, never once making an offensive move.
Dominic observed her from the side, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression a mask of cold concentration. He watched her every move, searching for the tell-tale sign of a true expert – the centered balance, the fluid economy of motion, the killer's instinct in her eyes. But he found nothing conclusive. Her performance was maddeningly flawless in its feigned imperfection. She looked exactly like what she claimed to be: a novice, terrified and out of her depth, surviving on sheer luck and adrenaline. Yet, she survived. And that, in itself, was suspicious.
Up on the viewing platform, Lilliana was a nervous wreck. "Oh, please be careful, Vi," she whispered to herself, her hands clasped in prayer. "Please don't let him hurt you."
Joran, growing increasingly frustrated by his inability to land a decisive blow on his seemingly clumsy opponent, let out a roar and lunged with more aggression than skill. He feinted high, then swung his sword in a low, vicious arc. Viviana ducked, but not quite fast enough. The sharp tip of his sword sliced through the linen of her shirtsleeve, cutting a clean tear across her upper arm and exposing a pale expanse of skin. It was a hair's breadth from drawing blood.
Viviana hissed, a soft sound of what seemed like pained surprise but was, in reality, pure annoyance. "If it weren't for the necessity of this cover," she murmured so low that not even the wind could catch the words, "you would have been dead five times by now, boy."
Before Joran could press his advantage, Viviana made her move. It was not an attack, but a surrender. With a cry that sounded like a mixture of fear and exhaustion, she deliberately "stumbled" on a loose patch of dirt, her ankle appearing to twist beneath her. She fell hard to one knee, her daggers held up in a weak, trembling guard. "I yield!" she cried out, her voice strained. "I have lost!"
Joran, caught in the momentum of his attack and perhaps eager to seal his victory beyond any doubt, followed through with a less powerful but still sharp slash. Viviana, seeing the blade coming, raised her forearm in a seemingly panicked, defensive gesture. The tip of the short sword caught her cleanly across the leather bracer she wore, but slid off and traced a thin, bright red line across the exposed skin just below it. Blood, startlingly red against her pale skin, welled up instantly and began to trickle down her arm.
A triumphant, cruel smirk spread across Dominic's face. The wager was won. "This marks the end of our contest, don't you agree, Princess?" he called out to the viewing platform, his voice laced with cold satisfaction.
Lilliana didn't even glance at him. The moment she saw the blood, she was already running down the wooden steps of the platform, her skirts flying behind her. She rushed to Viviana's side, her face a mask of frantic worry. She knelt in the dust, heedless of her fine gown, her eyes fixed on the bleeding cut. "I'm so sorry, Vi," she mouthed, her own eyes filling with tears of guilt. "So, so sorry."
Viviana, still breathing heavily for effect, simply shook her head slightly, a silent reassurance.
Without a second thought, Lilliana grabbed the hem of her own expensive silk skirt, tore a long strip of the fabric, and began to wrap it firmly around Viviana's arm, creating a makeshift bandage. She then helped Viviana, who leaned on her heavily, to her feet.
Lilliana, her eyes now blazing with fury, turned to face the Prince. "You won your cruel game, Your Highness," she said, her voice trembling with anger. "So, what is this precious 'favor' you demand of me? What price must I pay for your amusement?"
Dominic walked towards them, his expression one of complete, dismissive victory. "Patience, Princess," he replied, his voice a low drawl. "I do not think I will claim my prize just yet. A debt such as this is far more valuable when it is held in reserve. I will claim my favor in due time, when it suits my purposes best. I shall be sure to communicate my desire to you then."
Lilliana shot him a glare filled with pure loathing, then turned her back on him, putting a supportive arm around Viviana's waist and beginning to assist her slow, limping walk out of the training arena.
Dominic watched them go, then turned his cold gaze upon Joran. The young recruit was now the center of attention, being clapped on the back and congratulated by his fellow soldiers for his victory.
"You have the audacity to celebrate?" Dominic's voice spat, instantly silencing the cheerful back-patting. Everyone froze. Joran's proud smile vanished, replaced by a look of confusion and fear.
"You cheer because you managed, after considerable effort, to land a single scratch on a woman who was clearly out of her depth?" Dominic continued, taking a step towards them. He spat on the dusty ground near Joran's feet, a gesture of ultimate contempt. "A woman half your size and weight? You were slow, clumsy, and utterly predictable. Her survival for even a minute in this ring with you is a profound embarrassment to my training and a stain upon the honor of this company. She made you look like a fool."
The recruits stood in terrified silence, their faces ashen. Joran looked as if he had been struck.
"Everybody out," Dominic commanded, his voice a low, menacing growl. "You are all dismissed from training for the remainder of the day. Get out of my sight. Your collective performance today was pathetic."
The recruits scrambled to obey, practically tripping over each other in their haste to escape the Prince's wrath.
Soon, only Lord Theodore remained, his expression troubled as he watched Dominic. "Why, Dominic?" he asked quietly, once they were alone. "What is it about her, Lady Viviana, that invokes such… cruelty in you? That makes you hate her so much?"
Dominic turned away, staring at the empty sparring circle. "She has the same gaze," he said, his voice raw with an emotion Theodore rarely heard. "The same quiet watchfulness, the same eyes that see everything and reveal nothing. She has the eyes of the woman I hate most in this world. Looking at her… it makes me angry. It makes me want to be… vengeful."
Before Theodore could begin to process this startling and cryptic confession, a royal messenger hurried onto the grounds, bowing low before him. "My lord, an urgent message from the palace steward regarding the preparations for your father's imminent arrival. Your presence is required immediately."
Theodore glanced from the messenger to Dominic's rigid back, a look of deep concern on his face. "I'm sorry, Dom," he said. "I am needed elsewhere." He gave his cousin one last worried look before departing, leaving Dominic alone in the vast, silent arena.
For a long moment, Dominic stood there, a solitary figure amidst the scarred practice posts and the lingering scent of sweat and fear.
"You can come out now," he said finally, his voice low but carrying clearly in the quiet air.
From the deep shadows beneath the viewing platform, a figure emerged, moving with a silent, ghost-like grace. It was a young man, his face, from the nose down, completely obscured by a simple grey cloth mask, leaving only a pair of dark, intelligent eyes visible.
"When did you arrive, Cecil?" Dominic asked, not turning around.
"Not too long ago, Your Highness," the young man – Cecil – answered, his voice muffled by the mask. "I observed the end of the… contest."
Dominic finally turned, his blue eyes like chips of ice. " Have you found out anything about her yet?" he demanded.