The morning air inside the training hall was colder than she expected.
Thalia Drale stepped past the arching threshold into the vaulted chamber, her boots echoing sharply off stone as if the castle itself took note of her presence. The scent of worn leather, polished wood, and iron hung heavily in the air. The room, vast and lit dimly by early morning torches, bore the familiar hum of preparation—young men muttering, testing their grips, some even already sparring in quiet corners. It was the place where squires and knightlings carved their names into legacy.
All eyes turned to her.
She was clad in the same armor from the stand—the breastplate catching the flame-light in subtle gleams, the red cloak of House Drale flowing behind her like a banner not yet claimed. The weight of it was new, but the purpose was not. Thalia's chin was high, her steps firm. But the moment her presence registered, something shifted in the air. A silence louder than any greeting.
Several young knights-in-training broke off their conversations and stepped away. One even dropped a wooden sword back onto the table, not even bothering to set it down gently. The quiet disapproval wasn't vocal—but it rang clearer than any insult.
Thalia stopped in her stride, eyeing the long table lined with weapons. Swords, maces, spears, axes… all wooden, but weighted. Training tools meant to bruise, to batter, to teach. She stepped toward them, her path deliberate, her shoulders squared despite the growing burn of their disdain.
As she reached the first table, the few boys lingering nearby dispersed quickly—like smoke on wind. She caught their movement in her periphery. One boy even looked over his shoulder to see if she would notice.
She did. But she didn't flinch.
Thalia's eyes swept over the table. She hovered a hand over a broadsword, then a spear. But it was the axe that caught her gaze.
It was large, heavier-looking than the others, its double-bladed edge curved like a crescent moon. She smiled—not one of pride, but of recognition. This wasn't a weapon of elegance. It was not beautiful or ornate. But it had power, balance, intent. Her fingers closed around the hilt. The weight startled her at first, even in wood. But then—she spun it once, then again, before bringing it down to a stance, foot angled, shoulders aligned.
Laughter.
Low, cruel chuckles floated from a nearby group of boys. They didn't say a word, but their sneers spoke volumes. She turned her head slightly, letting her eyes lock with theirs. It was enough. The smirks vanished, and the group quickly busied themselves with buckles and straps.
She turned back to the axe.
But then came a voice behind her, quieter than the others, tinged with amusement.
"Easy... they're not as tough as they look. Trust me."
Thalia spun slightly, not with her weapon but with guarded curiosity. Behind her stood a boy—no, a young man. Taller than most in the room. Straight black hair, tousled from sleep or laziness, she couldn't tell. But it was his eyes that startled her: a piercing shade of blue, like deep water beneath moonlight.
He wore no armor—just a fitted tunic and loose trousers tucked into worn boots. Casual, as though this was all a game to him.
"Princess Thalia, is it?" he added with a tilt of his brow, a smirk playing at his lips.
As if there was anyone else with her distinguishable red hair.
Thalia lowered the axe to her side. "Who else but Thalia?"
He nodded as though he'd expected no other answer. "Right. I'm Vincent. Vincent of Solaria."
She tilted her head. "Solaria…" Her eyes narrowed, trying to place the name. "That's… um… where was it again—?"
"Way out of the kingdom," he interrupted smoothly. "Far, far west."
Thalia caught on. "Aye. Out by the Mirrors of the Gods."
His smile widened. "Aye, aye."
They stood in quiet accord for a breath, a flicker of something passing between them. Then Vincent reached out a hand—not to kiss hers, not to bow, but to shake it. She hesitated. No one had greeted her like that before. It was foreign. Common. Odd. But… honest.
She took his hand.
His grin brightened like he'd won something, though he tried—and failed—to hide it. When he let go, he leaned on the table with crossed arms. Thalia's eyes darted briefly to his forearm, strong and knotted with muscle. She blinked, then quickly turned away and gave her focus back to the axe.
"Alright, lads, out with you lot! Let's see some blood today!" a gruff voice boomed.
Thalia looked up. It was the same man as before—grizzled, his face marked by a scar so deep it had blinded one eye. His beard was thick, peppered with age. He barely looked at her, though his eye may have noticed.
"Aye! Aye! Aye!" the room roared back.
Everyone joined in. Everyone… except Thalia.
She looked around. Their camaraderie was loud, tribal—something she was not yet part of. But she bowed her head, hiding a smile of her own.
When she glanced to her right, where Vincent had stood—
He was gone.
Vanished. As if he had never been there.
Thalia blinked. Then chuckled quietly to herself and lifted her axe again.
This time, it felt more familiar