Snow drifted in slow, deliberate spirals over the courtyard of Ironspire Fortress, swallowed by the wind before it could settle. The sky hung heavy and gray, an iron lid over the frozen expanse where warriors were tested, where the weak were cut down and the strong were forged. Here, where the cold burrowed into the bones and the wind bit like sharpened steel, there was no room for hesitation.

  Darian Veyne stood at the center of the courtyard, bare-chested, his skin ghost-pale against the frost-laced air. The cold had long since numbed him, a dull ache buried beneath his pride. Mist curled from his lips, vanishing into the frozen air. Each breath, a vow. He would not shiver. The cold pressed in, sharp as a blade, but he stood unmoved. The ground beneath him was treacherous, hard-packed ice scored with the scars of past duels, scratches from blades, gouges from boot heels, dark stains where blood had melted through frost. The arena of his ancestors. The proving ground of men who had never needed to prove themselves.

  Beyond the walls, the world moved without him. The distant clang of steel rang from the training grounds, the bark of orders cutting through the cold. But here, in the ring, silence reigned. Heavy. Judging.

  Darian stood among them, the warriors of Veyndral, but they were distant. He was alone. He had never felt it more. Their presence was a wall, cold and unyielding, formed not by armor or blades but by the weight of expectation. They did not cheer or even murmur. They only watched on in total silence.

  The frost-bitten wind curled through the ring, slipping over Darian’s bare skin like a blade drawn slow. Still, he did not shiver. He forced his breath to steady, his shoulders to square. He had spent his life training for this, for the moment when he would step into the light of his father’s judgment and prove that he was worthy of the name he bore. But the cold did not care for his resolve, and neither did the men who stood around him.

  A shadow moved at the edge of his vision, parting the silent ranks like a prow cutting through ice. Calder Rynvak, the Master of Ironshore. He was built like a warhammer, broad and solid, his presence carrying the weight of a man who had survived more battles than Darian had lived years. His beard was grey and thick with frost, his scarred face unmoving as he stepped into the ring. He rolled his shoulders, the movement slow and deliberate.

  A sword rested easily in his grip, the blackiron hilt worn smooth from years of use. It was not a weapon wielded with ceremony, it was an extension of himself, a thing as natural as breathing. He did not tense. He did not posture. He only waited.

  Darian swallowed. The frozen air burned his throat.

  Beyond Calder, beyond the circle of warriors, a single figure stood at the edge of the courtyard.

  Adrien Veyne, King of Veyndral.

  His father did not move. The deep blue of his cloak shifted faintly in the wind, but otherwise, he was motionless, his presence colder than the ice beneath their feet. His steel gray eyes held no anger, no disappointment, and no approval.

  Nothing.

  Darian had seen men break under that gaze, had watched them wither before they even raised a blade. The weight of it was already settling over him and hesitation was weakness. Darian knew this well. The lesson had been drilled into him, hammered into his flesh until it became as instinctive as breath. To wait was to falter. In war, in command, beneath the unyielding scrutiny of his father, hesitation meant defeat.

  So Darian moved.

  The moment his muscles coiled, his boots bit into the frozen ground, scraping against ice as he lunged. His blade cut the air in a sharp arc, the steel whispering as it sought the opening at Calder’s flank.

  The older warrior’s movement was almost lazy, a subtle shift of weight, a flick of his wrist. Darian’s blade met iron, but instead of the satisfying clash of engagement, the impact softened, turned aside like a careless thought. Calder stepped back, his posture unchanged, his grip on his sword easy. Unbothered.

  Darian recovered quickly, pivoting, but Calder did not counterattack. Instead, he watched Darian patiently. The ice beneath them groaned with their shifting weight, and the wind howled through the courtyard like a spectator.

  Darian adjusted his stance, his grip tightening around his hilt. He had expected resistance, had braced for the strain of Calder’s strength meeting his. But this? This was something else.

  He was not being fought, but rather, being measured.

  Like an untested blade, held to the light, weighed for its worth before the hammer decided if it would be forged or discarded. Darian shifted his stance, recalibrating. The cold nipped at his bare skin, the sting of winter insignificant beneath the deeper and sharper bite of unease.

  Darian feinted left, a flicker of motion meant to draw a response. The moment his weight shifted, he pivoted sharply, his blade carving downward in a decisive arc. It was a maneuver drilled into him since childhood—fast, efficient, meant to break an opponent’s guard and drive them onto the defensive.

  Calder did not block.

  He did not counter.

  He stepped aside.

  Effortlessly.

  Darian’s blade met nothing but air, the momentum carrying him forward more than he intended. He caught himself, boots scraping against ice as he pulled back into position. His breath came quicker now, fogging in the cold.

  Calder watched, silent and patient. There was no mockery in his expression, no arrogance. He was not toying with Darian, not in the way an enemy might. There was no needling, no goading, just a quiet, impenetrable patience.

  Darian clenched his jaw. This wasn’t how he had imagined it. He wasn’t being beaten, he was being dismissed. His breath came harder now, mist curling from his lips in rapid bursts. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, fingers stiff from the cold, from frustration. The warriors at the edge of the ring remained completely still, their expressions unreadable, their judgment unspoken, but Darian could feel it all the same.

  He needed to break this. To force Calder’s hand.

  With a growl low in his throat, Darian swung, measured and strong, his blade cutting through the frozen air toward Calder’s ribs.

  Calder stepped in. Not away. Not back. In.

  The distance between them collapsed in an instant, too fast for Darian to adjust. Bone struck bone. Calder’s head crashed into his with brutal precision. The force sent a shock through his skull, numbing thought, scattering balance. A bloom of warmth followed, thick and wet, seeping into his eye, turning the world to crimson and shadow, but Calder was still moving.

  He gave no pause or hesitation—just motion, smooth as a river carving stone. His momentum surged, a force beyond restraint. His palm struck Darian’s chest like a warhammer, the impact shattering his breath. His footing failed him, boots skidding against ice, sending him stumbling back. He barely kept himself upright, his balance teetering on the edge of collapse.

  A quiet sound rippled through the gathered warriors.

  Darian’s stomach twisted and he swallowed hard, chest rising and falling as he steadied himself. His gaze flicked toward the edge of the courtyard to the figure that had not moved, not spoken. His father stood where he had been all along, cloak shifting faintly in the wind, his eyes locked on the fight. He did not react. Did not nod. Did not turn away. And that, more than the shove, more than the silent expectations of the warriors surrounding him, cut deepest.

  Pain curled in Darian’s ribs, a slow, seething thing, but he forced himself back into position. The cold bit at his skin, his breath coming in tight, burning pulls, but he pushed it all aside.

  This was nothing. Pain could be ignored. Doubt could not be silenced so easily.

  He tightened his grip on his sword, fingers aching from the frost, and this time, when he moved, it was with control. No reckless lunge. No desperation. Just speed and precision.

  His blade sang through the air, sharp and deliberate. Sparks flared as steel met steel—Calder met him.

  For the first time, their weapons locked. Darian drove forward, pressing the attack. A cut toward the shoulder, deflected. A feint to the left, turned aside. A downward strike, met with solid iron. But still, he advanced. His footwork tightened, his strikes relentless, each one a demand, a refusal to be dismissed.

  And for a fleeting heartbeat, he believed he could turn the tide.

  Then Calder shifted.

  It was slight. A shift in stance, an adjustment of angle—so small, so precise that Darian didn’t recognize the trap until it was already closing around him.

  His balance broke.

  His forward momentum became his downfall as Calder angled his blade just enough to guide him off-course. Before Darian could recover, the hilt of Calder’s sword slammed into his ribs.

  Pain detonated through his side. His vision blurred at the edges as the impact drove the breath from his lungs, stole the strength from his legs. His knees hit the ice. He gasped, gripping at the frozen ground, the cold seeping into his palms. His body screamed at him, his ribs throbbing with each ragged inhale.

  Calder stepped back, lowering his blade slightly.

  A silent offer.

  Yield.

  Darian’s breath shuddered in the cold. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, heavier than the ice beneath him, heavier than the pain lancing through his ribs. But he did not let go of his sword. His fingers dug into the frost. He was not done. The Prince of Veyndral did not yield.

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  Darian pushed himself up, one knee at a time, ignoring the way his ribs screamed, the way his limbs trembled beneath the weight of the cold, the hurt, the watching eyes.

  He would stand.

  Because to stay down was unthinkable.

  Darian’s vision blurred at the edges, but he moved anyway.

  His body screamed at him to stop, to yield, to accept what was already decided—but instinct drove him forward. Not calculation. Not discipline. Just raw, unrelenting defiance.

  His sword came up, no longer precise, no longer measured. There was no strategy now, only the burning need to prove himself—to Calder, to the warriors watching in silence, to the man who had yet to acknowledge his existence.

  The cold had seeped into his bones, turning his fingers stiff, clumsy. His grip on the hilt tightened, but it felt distant, unsteady. Each breath he dragged into his lungs burned, his ribs tightening like iron bands, but still, he forced himself forward.

  He lunged.

  The strike was too fast, too reckless, fueled by frustration more than skill. His blade aimed true, but in his desperation, he had forgotten everything. Forgotten patience. Forgotten control.

  Calder did not.

  A shift of weight. A turn of the wrist.

  Darian’s sword met iron, and before his attack could truly begin, it was gone. Deflected.

  Effortlessly.

  Like a master smith turning away an unworthy blade.

  The opening was instant. And fatal.

  Calder did not hesitate.

  The flat of his sword struck Darian’s ribs with the force of a battering ram.

  Pain exploded through him—sharp, consuming, white-hot. His body betrayed him before his mind could even process it. The world tilted violently, and then the ice was at his back, cold and unforgiving.

  He gasped, his breath ragged, uneven. His chest convulsed, his ribs screaming in protest with every shallow inhale.

  His fingers twitched toward his sword.

  They found nothing.

  His strength was gone.

  The snow beneath him darkened as fresh blood seeped into the ice, a stark, spreading stain.

  He lay there, breath coming in sharp, uneven shudders.

  And for the first time, the weight of absolute failure settled in his chest.

  Darian lay still.

  The ice beneath him bit into his back, numbing the worst of the pain, but it could not dull the raw ache spreading through his ribs. Every breath came shallow, each inhale edged with fire, each exhale curling weakly into the cold air. His fingers twitched, useless, too drained to reach for the sword that had fallen from his grasp. His body refused to move, muscles locked in the dull, dragging weight of exhaustion. He could feel the bruises forming—his arms, his ribs, the side of his jaw where Calder’s last strike had sent him sprawling.

  He had endured worse pain before.

  But never like this.

  Bootsteps approached, slow and deliberate. They stopped beside him. Darian didn’t need to look to know who it was.

  Steel-gray eyes swept over him, unreadable as a blade held at a stranger’s throat. No flicker of emotion. No crease of irritation. Just assessment. A quiet, unflinching judgment passed down like a sentence already decided.

  "Veyndral is not made of steel and blood alone." Adrien’s voice cut through the cold, steady as the wind rolling down from the mountains. “It is made of the men who hold the line.”

  The words settled like iron chains, heavy enough that Darian felt them more than he heard them.

  A slow breath. He tasted blood in his mouth. He forced himself to swallow it.

  His father watched him a moment longer, unreadable as ever, then spoke again. "You were not meant to win today. You were meant to learn."

  Darian’s fingers curled weakly against the ice. He hated how his body betrayed him, how his limbs would not obey, how he had to lie there and listen while Adrien judged him from above.

  "A lesson.” The weight of his voice pressed down, forcing Darian to understand. “And what did you learn?”

  The answer was bitter in his mouth. He clenched his jaw, swallowing the taste of it."That I am not ready."

  He forced the words out, each one an admission, a wound deeper than any Calder Rynvak had carved into him today.

  Adrien nodded once, an agreement.

  "Good."

  His father studied him for another moment, then nodded again, the closest thing to approval he would ever give. Then he turned and walked away, leaving Darian with nothing but the echo of his words and the cold seeping into his bones.

  A clang of steel broke through the hush, then another. The warriors of Veyndral returned to their drills, swords clashing, boots grinding against frostbitten earth. Training resumed as if nothing had happened, because nothing had happened.

  No one lingered.

  No one looked back.

  No one helped him up.

  Darian squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers twitching against the ice. The world moved without him. The rasp of a blade sliding into its sheath drew his attention. Calder Rynvak stood over him, expression unreadable, his broad shoulders framed by the steel-gray sky.

  “You’ve got heart,” Calder said. “I’ll give you that.” The words landed with neither kindness nor malice. “Shame you didn’t bring anything else.”

  Then he turned away. His boots crunched softly in the snow, leaving Darian alone, but Calder’s words were nothing compared to the silence left by his father.

  Darian stayed on his knees, breath curling in the cold. His ribs throbbed with every shallow breath, the ache settling deep, a relentless pulse of pain beneath his skin. His hands curled into fists against the ice, numb fingers pressing into the frozen ground as if anchoring him there, because standing felt impossible.

  The blood from his brow had already seeped into the ice and darkened. By morning, it would harden. By the next snowfall, it would disappear. A stain, washed away like it had never been there at all.

  Like this moment.

  Like him.

  The bruises would heal, the ache in his ribs would dull, his body would forget the pain, but his mind would remember, because this wasn’t just pain. This was proof that he was not enough. The shame settled heavier than the cold, heavier than the weight of his own exhaustion. The bruises on his skin were nothing compared to the one Adrien had left behind with a single utterance. For the first time, the cold sank past his skin, past his bones, and this time, it stayed.

  By the time the cold finally left him, he was inside, and Lissara was pressing a damp cloth to his brow. The bruising had begun to set deep—a jagged bloom of purple along his ribs where Calder Rynvak’s strike had landed true. He had barely landed a blow in return.

  It wasn’t the pain that unsettled him. Pain faded. The shame would not.

  "Sit still," came a voice like old iron, dulled by years but unbending.

  Lissara’s hands were steady as they pressed on his brow. She had once been his mother’s handmaiden—now, she was one of the last living reminders of her. Where the others had bowed their heads and faded into the background, Lissara had stayed, watching, waiting. It unsettled him, the way she always saw too much.

  "It was a clean fight," she said at last.

  Darian let out a sharp breath. "It wasn’t a fight." She said nothing, just dipped the cloth into a basin of water, the ripples breaking the candlelight. "It was a lesson," he continued bitterly. "A spectacle. A reminder to the whole damned court of what I am not."

  "And what is that?"

  He lifted his head, ready to snap at her, but she was only watching him, calm as ever. "Strong enough," he muttered. "Cold enough. Merciless enough. A son my father doesn’t have to be ashamed of."

  Lissara sighed through her nose, the way she always did when she thought him a fool.

  "You’re not heartless, Darian."

  His jaw tightened, "I should be."

  Lissara hummed, pressing a salve to his ribs. The sting bit deep, but Darian didn’t flinch. “You remember the story of King Rhygar, do you not? The man who gave up his heart?" Darian sighed..

  "I know the story," he muttered. "Rhygar and the Black Wyrm. Strength demands sacrifice. Power has a price."

  Lissara gave a quiet, knowing smile.

  "That’s what the most say." She dabbed at his brow, then leaned back, eyeing her work. "But your mother always toldit another way."

  Darian forced himself still.

  "That power could hollow a man," Lissara murmured, as if she was remembering, not preaching. "That a lust for control, true, endless control, changes who you are long before you ever hold the knife."

  She twisted the cloth, wringing water into the basin.

  "Rhygar never knew the cost of the power he desired." Her voice softened, her hands working with quiet care. "And do you remember what happened when the Wyrm returned?"

  Darian knew the answer.

  The thought lingered with him as he left Lissara’s chamber, but he could focus on little else while his ribs still ached, the dull throb of bruised muscle and fractured pride settling deep in his bones. He had endured worse pain before, but never before had he been left bleeding before his father’s council. A lesson, Adrien had called it. A display. A reminder that strength was measured in humiliation just as much as in steel. He sucked in a breath, forcing his spine straight. He would not dare limp or waver. If the someone saw weakness now, they would devour it.

  The hall was quiet, the torches flickering low. The scent of forge smoke and cold iron drifted faintly through the stone. He had half a mind to return to his chamber and shut out the world until the pain dulled, but he had lingered long enough in silence. Calder would be waiting. The would all be expecting him, so he pressed on.

  He felt him before he saw him, that familiar, insufferable presence lingering just beyond the torchlight. Loren Halvren. Darian barely paused, but the shift in the air was unmistakable, the lazy, knowing weight of Loren’s gaze settling on him like an inevitability.

  Loren had been in Ironspire for not even four years, taken as a ward of the king, though it was no secret Adrien had never wanted him. The son of Adrien’s sister, raised in the south, sent here when his mother decided she didn’t know what to do with him.

  “So.” Loren’s voice was soft, smooth, edged with something unreadable. “What now?”

  Darian didn’t answer right away. He focused on moving forward, keeping his breath even.

  “I keep moving,” he said.

  Loren hummed a quiet note of amusement as he pushed off the wall and fell into step beside him. His stride was effortless, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his posture too casual for a place like this. He carried the air of someone untouched by duty, but that was a lie—Loren had simply perfected the illusion that none of it mattered. He was lean, built for speed rather than strength, his dark hair tousled, his sharp features set in a perpetual half-smirk. His coat and tunic, finely cut but unadorned, bore the muted grays and blacks of Veyndral, absent the armor most noble sons would wear. He claimed it was too restrictive, too heavy, but Darian suspected the truth was simpler. Loren had no interest in looking like anyone else.

  “That’s the spirit,” Loren murmured, tilting his head slightly, as if appraising him. Then, with a smirk: “Though if you want a rematch, I suggest fighting someone who hasn’t seen three decades of war.”

  Darian let out a breath, something hovering between a chuckle and a sigh. Loren had a talent for puncturing tension at the exact moment it threatened to drown him.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Darian muttered.

  Their steps rang hollow against the cobble stone. The air was thick with iron and smoke, the scent clinging to their clothes, settling in their lungs. All around them, the forges burned, their steady thrum as relentless as the passage of time. Loren said nothing, yet his silence was not empty. Darian felt his presence, solid and waiting, not intrusive, but unshakable. A quiet expectation lingered between them, something Loren would not voice, something Darian would not answer. After a time, Loren breathed heavy, not quite a sigh, but a breath held too long, a pause where words might have been.

  Darian finally answered him. “I’m not in the mood for heart-to-hearts.”

  Loren grinned, tilting his head slightly. "Oh, I have patience. And I’d hate to deprive you of my endless wisdom."

  Darian didn’t look at him. Loren’s voice was light, smooth—too smooth. He knew exactly where to press, exactly how to let words slip into the cracks without making it seem like he was searching for them.

  "But if I had just been beaten half to death in front of my father, I imagine I’d have some thoughts about it."

  Darian stopped. Just for a second.

  Then he kept walking.

  Loren followed, clicking his tongue softly.

  "Ah. Silence. A rare and beautiful thing."

  Darian didn’t answer.

  Loren didn’t speak again, and Darian didn’t invite him to. His ribs still ached, his body stiff with the memory of every strike he had taken. His father’s voice lingered, sharp and unforgiving, carved into the marrow of his bones.

  He would heal. He always did. At the next branching corridor, Loren slowed, and then stopped but Darian didn’t.

  "Try to sleep, at least,” Loren called after him, voice lighter than the weight in his eyes. "It would be a shame if you survived such a beating only to die of exhaustion.”

  Darian lifted a hand in a vague acknowledgment but didn’t turn back. The walk to his chambers felt longer than it should have. The weight in his chest did not ease when he finally reached the door. Inside, the room was dark, cold, and empty. Darian exhaled and closed the door behind him. The room was dark, cold, and empty.

  He was used to that.

  His ribs throbbed as he moved, but the pain was not what lingered. The silence did. Adrien’s voice still echoed, carved into him deeper than any wound Calder had left.

  You were meant to learn.

  He forced himself to straighten. He would learn.

  Darian crossed the room, fingers ghosting over the hilt of his sword before tightening into a fist.

  Failure was a lesson Darian Veyne would not be taught twice.