The final course had long since vanished, save for the gentle gleam of blood-tinted wine pooled in their crystal glasses. Candlelight shimmered across polished silver and gilded china, casting long golden shadows over the now quiet dining hall. Caralee reclined slightly in her chair, her fingertips absently tracing the rim of her goblet. She felt the warmth of the evening, the comfort of Merrick's gaze, and the thrilling strangeness of her new world all settling into her bones.
Merrick leaned back, elbow draped over the carved armrest, watching her with open amusement. "You still haven't answered my question, my sweet."
She blinked, slightly dazed from the rich flavors and the heady quiet. "Which question?"
"The one about your new tutelage," he said, his voice low and laced with mischief. "Have you given any thought to your chosen discipline?"
Caralee hesitated. Then, almost on a whim, her lips parted. "Fencing," she said. "I might… like to try fencing."
Merrick's eyes lit instantly, a boyish thrill alighting across his face like a spark to dry parchment.
"Fencing," he echoed, slowly rising to his feet with something between reverence and excitement. "Mon Dieu. Now that is a most excellent choice."
Before she could second-guess herself, he had reached for her hand, gently pulling her to her feet with a flourish and a grin. "Come," he said, practically beaming. "I'll show you just how delightful it can be."
They swept through the castle's corridors like wind on marble, her slippers barely keeping up with his eager stride. He led her through a set of broad double doors carved with reliefs of battles long past. The room that opened before her was massive—vaulted ceilings, sconces burning high on stone pillars, and racks upon racks of weapons glinting in the firelight. The floor was smooth and waxed, bordered by lines worn into the wood from years of footwork and steel.
The training hall.
Merrick strode toward the wall and pulled free two blunted rapiers, their long, elegant blades dulled for practice but still impeccably balanced. He turned back, twirling one sword easily between his fingers as if it were an extension of his hand.
He offered the second to her with the utmost care.
"First," he said, gently adjusting her fingers, "you grip it here—thumb and forefinger around the guard, like so. Wrist loose but firm. Good. Your other fingers cradle the hilt—no choking it. This is not a cudgel."
She mimicked his instructions, brows furrowed in concentration.
"Now your stance," he said, stepping back. "Feet shoulder-width. Lead foot forward. Heels aligned. Keep your knees soft. You want to glide, not stomp. Fencing is a dance, not a brawl."
He walked a slow circle around her, nudging her elbow here, tapping her shoulder there. "Weight forward. Sword arm extended. Off-hand lifted for balance. Beautiful."
She tried, and failed, not to beam at the praise.
He held up his own blade. "We begin with the basics. En garde. That's your ready position. Then the three primary attacks: thrust, lunge, and riposte. All governed by distance and timing. You block—parry—and respond immediately. Most duels are won in inches, not miles."
She nodded, trying to absorb every word.
Then he added softly, "But above all, trust your instincts, Cara. You were bred for this, whether you understand it or not. It's in your blood."
His voice took on a note of gravity that made her chest tighten. She drew a breath, grounding herself. Something ancient stirred within her, like a ripple beneath still water.
Merrick took his position, blade angled with effortless poise. "Now. Show me what you've got."
Their swords touched in a courteous salute, and then—like lightning cleaving silence—they began.
At first, her movements were hesitant, stuttered. She copied the form, mimicked his steps. But then—like a curtain being drawn back—something shifted.
Her body began to remember.
She didn't think about stepping forward—she did. Her blade extended not with guesswork, but with precision. Her parries were clean, her footwork tight. She moved like a whisper through smoke.
Merrick blinked, narrowly evading a thrust that cut the air just beside his ribs.
"Well now," he laughed, parrying with more urgency. "Beginner's luck?"
But the next exchange came faster. She advanced, disengaged, lunged. Her rapier kissed the fabric of his vest with a whispering touch.
He stepped back, surprised. "That one nearly skewered me."
Another flurry—engagement, feint, remise—and she spun away from his blade like water slipping around stone.
His brow furrowed. He pressed harder, trying to outpace her.
And failed.
The hall rang with the clash of steel, the slap of feet on wood. She moved with inhuman speed, each attack elegant and devastating. Her eyes narrowed, lips set. She didn't speak. She didn't laugh. She hunted him like a predator in silence.
A blur of silver—coupé, riposte, parry four—and Merrick had to leap back to avoid her point grazing his throat.
He was no longer smiling.
"She's not holding back," he muttered under his breath, breathless.
It was no longer sport—it was spectacle. Her blade work wasn't just skilled. It was transcendent. Refined. Ancient. He watched the precise lines of her form, the symmetrical perfection of her thrusts and recoveries.
He had seen this once before.
A memory surfaced—long buried in dust and time—of dueling Robespierre beneath a blood moon, the man's sword like divine lightning.
Now, Merrick's gaze shifted, not to her blade, but into her.
And what he saw took his breath.
Power—raw, radiant, and old—wove through her limbs like spun gold. Magic thrummed just beneath her skin, braided into her blood and bone. Not taught. Not learned. Inherited. Passed down from warriors, leaders, legends.
He faltered.
Dropped to one knee.
Her sword halted inches from his chest. She gasped, snapping from the trance. "Why did you stop?"
His eyes shimmered with unshed tears, utterly awed. "Cara—" he whispered. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"
She dropped to her knees before him, panic lacing her breath. "Did I do something wrong?"
He gathered her tightly in his arms, burying his face in her neck. "Don't apologize. Never apologize."
He pulled back, cupping her cheeks, his eyes blazing. Then, without hesitation, he kissed her—deep and reverent, like the worship of a miracle.
"You are channeling ancestral magic," he breathed. "You're not just learning—you're remembering. You're acting as a vessel for your entire bloodline. You know how to access your lineage without being taught. Cara… that's unheard of."
She blinked at him, stunned. "I did what?"
"You are the culmination of centuries of power. Your blood sings with it. The magic running through you isn't just energy—it's memory. Your Legacy. You are divine perfection, chosen by fate itself."
And for the first time, Caralee didn't flinch from the truth.
She met his gaze head-on and whispered, a new fire burning within her. "Then teach me."