The training yard echoed with the clash of steel. Alric moved like a man possessed — strikes swift, breath steady, eyes colder than winter stone.
Across from him stood Darian.
Neither spoke.
Squires watched from the shadows, sensing tension that went beyond the sparring blades.
Their swords met again, sparks flying. Darian was skilled — quick, precise — but today, Alric fought like a man with something to prove.
"You fight differently," Darian said, ducking a strike. "Has married life made you violent?"
Alric's blade came dangerously close to Darian's shoulder. "Has spying on nobles become a knight's duty?"
Darian laughed, a low, amused sound. "We all serve the crown in our own way."
"Some of us serve more than one," Alric said flatly.
The blade paused — just for a beat.
And then they fought again, until the swords locked. Faces close. Breathing harsh.
"She's not what she seems," Darian muttered.
Alric's grip didn't waver. "No one ever is."
"You think she loves you?"
"I know it."
"You're a fool," Darian hissed.
"And you," Alric said coldly, "are jealous."
Darian shoved him back, their swords breaking apart with a sharp clang.
"Don't flatter yourself, Duke."
But the flicker in Darian's eyes betrayed him.
It was quick — but Alric saw it.
Longing.
Pain.
And something bitter that had festered far too long.
"She never looked at you the way she looks at me," Alric said, not cruelly — but with certainty. "And that's what truly drives you mad."
Darian sheathed his sword and turned to leave, his voice quiet but sharp as he passed.
"She was a flame before you, Alric. Don't think you lit her."
And then he was gone.
Alric stood alone, the taste of truth bitter in his mouth. He looked down at his sword — still trembling in his grip.
He didn't doubt her love.
But he began to question how many had once stood exactly where he now stood — close to her, burned by her fire, and left wondering whether it had ever been real.
....to be continued....
Author's Note
There are moments when swords clash, not for victory, but for the right to bleed first. This was one of them.
This scene wasn't written for action—it was written for ache. For the ache of a man who loves deeply, another who loved first, and a woman who remains at the center of their ruin.
Alric and Darian are not enemies, not yet. But they are bound by something crueler than hate: the same woman, and the question of who ever truly had her.
I wrote this moment knowing one thing—no one leaves her untouched. Some burned in silence. Some walked away with scars. And some, like Alric, are just beginning to feel the heat.
If you felt your heart twist a little reading this—good. Mine did while writing it.
—With all the fire and ruin,
Your author