The silence between them was taut—electric. Her breath was still unsteady, her non existent pulse replaced by the magic that convulsed through her like a pulse— a phantom thrum beneath her skin.
She could feel Merrick watching her, the weight of his gaze heavier now, no longer filled with amusement or infatuated indulgence. No—this was something else. Respect. Awe. And something darker, deeper, more primal.
He rose slowly from the floor, retrieving his rapier from where it lay gleaming near his feet. When he straightened, his expression had shifted. No more teasing. No more restraint.
"If you are to learn," he said, voice like steel drawn across velvet, "then you must know the truth of it. You must know how it feels when your opponent does not hold back."
She blinked. "You're going to fight me seriously?"
He nodded once. "If I don't—then I would just be insulting the queen you were born to become."
That single word—queen—struck her like a bell tolling in her chest. Caralee lifted her blade, squaring her shoulders, fire lighting behind her eyes.
"Then don't hold back," she said.
They began again.
This time, it wasn't practice. It was war.
Merrick lunged first—flèche, fast and violent, closing the distance like a shadow cutting through light. She parried instinctively—parry six, deflecting his blade just enough to slip past her torso. She riposted immediately, the tip of her blade slicing through air toward his exposed ribs, but he countered with a spiral disengage, knocking her off balance.
He advanced again—advance-lunge, precise and punishing—but she retreated smoothly, her footwork now flowing, refined. Her instincts took over, guiding her through transitions with eerie grace—circular parry, bind, beat attack. Each maneuver flowed into the next like water cascading over stone.
Their blades collided in a blistering exchange, ringing like bells in an empty chapel. The sound of metal, the sharp hiss of breath, the scuff of boots gliding and pivoting across the polished floor—it was a symphony of steel and sweat.
Merrick smiled, eyes gleaming. "You're faster than before."
"I stopped thinking," she replied breathlessly. "I started listening."
She meant it. Somewhere beyond her own awareness, voices—no, impressions—were beginning to surface. She could feel them. Ancestors, ghosts of her bloodline, guiding her. Not with words, but with echoes. Suggestions. A sudden idea for a lunge she had never practiced. A block she didn't know she needed until her wrist turned on its own. Their presence whispered in her bones like muscle memory passed down through centuries.
She gave herself over to it completely.
And with it came power.
She attacked—bind and thrust, coupé, fleche—her strikes a blur of motion and intent. Merrick's defenses faltered as he backpedaled, caught off guard by her sudden aggression. Their swords sang, sparks flickering off each strike. She was wild now, relentless, her eyes narrowed with lethal focus.
Merrick grunted as her blade grazed his shoulder, leaving a small tear in the seam of his shirt.
That was the moment he stopped holding anything back.
He pivoted sharply—counter-riposte, then a close-in corps-à-corps to disrupt her stance. She recovered instantly, sidestepping and catching his blade with a beat. He smiled, breathing harder now. "You learn too fast."
"I was born to."
Their movements swept across the entire hall—vaulting over benches, clashing near the practice dummies, spinning past the towering weapon racks. Sweat beaded on their brows, their garments clinging to fevered skin. The air between them was molten, pulsing with heat and challenge.
Merrick lunged once more—she parried high, but he twisted around her guard, blade sliding low in a swift bind. She barely dodged, retreating to reset—but he pursued her. They moved as one, steps perfectly matched, swords locking over and over in a blur of motion.
Then—steel kissed steel, locking once more.
She gasped as her back struck the wall.
He had driven her there deliberately, his body pinning hers with the weight of his presence. Their rapiers were crossed between them, trembling with the tension of restraint. Their faces were inches apart, breaths coming fast and shallow, lips parted.
For a moment, they didn't move.
Just the sound of their breathing—hot and ragged—mingled in the air between them.
Then—
His mouth crashed into hers.
It was not a kiss of ceremony or politeness. It was ravenous. Desperate. A surrender and a claiming all at once. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer. Their swords fell from their hands, forgotten as they clattered to the floor with a final, echoing ring.
Merrick pressed her harder into the stone, one hand lifting her thigh, guiding her legs around his waist. She rose to meet him, wrapping herself around him with feral urgency. Her gown bunched around her hips, and his fingers fumbled at his waistband with shaking need.
There were no words.
Only heat.
Only instinct.
Only the thunder of power and lust and legacy crashing into each other.
He lifted her, and she lowered herself onto him with a gasp, a moan rising from deep in her throat as he filled her completely. Their eyes locked, and something ancient passed between them—heat, and power, command, and surrender.
They moved in rhythm, her back pressing to the wall with every motion, his hands gripping her thighs, her arms clinging to his shoulders. It was frantic, wild, and glorious. Not just a claiming of bodies, but of destiny. He held nothing back—his pace was merciless, each thrust a reverent punishment, a worship through motion. Her head fell foward, lips parted, her voice rising in cries that echoed like cathedral bells.
This was not delicate. This was not slow.
This was sacred.
This was war.
And when the crescendo came—when their cries merged into one final, broken, beautiful sound—they clung to each other, trembling, gasping, utterly undone.
Caralee buried her face in his neck, lips pressed to the skin where his pulse once lived.
He held her tight, forehead resting against hers.
"You were meant for so much more than you've ever been told," he whispered. "You are not for me to shape, Caralee. You are your blood's reckoning."
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time in her life, she actually believed it.