CHAPTER 169: CHAPTER 164: TRAINING

The training courtyard of the Imperial Palace was thick with mist, kissed by the pale amber light of dawn. The air smelled of steel, sweat, and sharp anticipation.

Two men moved like twin storms in the center of the ring.

Blades flashed. Boots struck stone. Every swing could’ve drawn blood if either of them had the intent to kill.

"You know," Max called from where he lounged on a carved stone bench, "I’ve seen wars that were less intense than this."

No one responded. They were all too busy watching.

Damian and Charles were evenly matched now, at least in speed and precision. One moved with the ruthless discipline of a man who’d been trained for power since birth. The other, with the raw, whipcrack energy of someone who refused to lose. Both had wards that prevented them from using magic during the battle.

Charles darted forward again, feinting low, then striking high. Damian blocked him by the hilt; their blades locked, eyes clashing just as hard.

"You’re better than I expected," Damian admitted, low enough that only Charles could hear. "No wasted steps. Almost no tells."

"Almost?" Charles hissed, shoving forward.

"You always flare your nostrils before a shoulder strike."

"Go to hell."

Max clapped his hands once, slowly. "Did everyone hear that? We’ve moved to compliments and death threats. They’ll be holding hands by lunch."

On the opposite side of the stone bench, Astana stood with his arms crossed, his face unreadable. A golden pin on his cloak glinted in the light. Around him, a few off-duty soldiers and staff had gathered in silence, drawn by the sound of blades and the rare sight of their Emperor training at full capacity.

No one dared whisper. They didn’t want to miss anything.

"I haven’t seen His Majesty pressed like this since Gregoris’s promotion trial," Astana remarked under his breath.

Max grinned. "That’s because Charles fights like a noble with something to prove. You can’t buy this level of indignation."

"Or stupidity," Astana replied. "He broke into the palace."

"Technically," Max said, "he applied for military service. Just with more flair."

Back in the ring, Charles spun, sword slicing low. Damian jumped back, pivoted, and struck again. Their weapons sang with the sound of pure force.

Charles’s blade grazed Damian’s shoulder, barely, but it left a mark.

The courtyard gasped.

Astana’s brows lifted, just slightly.

Max sat forward, impressed despite himself. "He drew blood."

"I noticed," Max said flatly.

He struck back harder.

Charles blocked, but the momentum shoved him back several steps. He held his ground, breathing hard now, hair clinging to his forehead. But his eyes, dark and defiant, burned with clarity.

"You’re not going to break me," he spat.

Damian didn’t smile. He didn’t blink.

"I’m not trying to break you," he said. "I’m forging you."

Max’s brows arched. "That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard him say. Should I be jealous?"

"No," Astana said calmly, "but you should be alert. If Charles is still standing after this match, he might be eligible for command."

Max snorted. "He’ll be lucky to survive breakfast."

"You’re all insane," Charles muttered, lifting his sword again.

Damian’s blade pointed back at him, golden eyes gleaming under the rising sun.

"Again."

Astana’s gaze shifted to the southern gate, just as a shadow peeled from it like smoke.

Gregoris.

Boots silent on stone, dark coat unbuttoned, gloves tucked behind in a pocket, the Commander of the Shadows moved through the gathered staff like a phantom through mist. No one dared speak as he passed.

He stopped beside Max and Astana at the edge of the ring.

For several moments, he said nothing. Just watched.

Then, quietly:

"He’s holding his own."

"Barely," Astana murmured.

Gregoris remained still. Charles’ eyes narrowed, absorbing every detail in the same way that he did not overcorrect. The control in his footwork. The timing of his reversals. The way he never once turned his back, even when pushed to the edge.

After another brutal exchange, Charles stumbled back a pace, sweat dripping down his jaw. But his blade didn’t lower.

Gregoris’s voice was low. Crisp. "That’s why you let him in."

Damian didn’t reply—he was still mid-motion, driving Charles back with a ruthless flurry—but Gregoris knew the answer already.

He nodded once to himself.

"You let him breach imperial protocol," Gregoris said, quieter now, "because you wanted him. Not as a warning. As a candidate."

Astana gave a short glance. "You disapprove?"

"No," Gregoris said. "I’m just... surprised." A beat. "He’s better than I thought."

Max leaned in, grinning. "Careful, Gregoris. You almost sounded impressed."

Then, with a pointed smirk, he nudged Astana’s arm. "Better than you did your first time."

Astana didn’t blink. "I’m a personal secretary, not his guard."

Gregoris, without turning, muttered, "You still cried."

"I didn’t." Astana’s voice cut clean as glass. He shot the two of them a glance that could freeze lakes. "You’re just pissed off you didn’t get the entire set."

That drew a slow blink from Max. "Set?"

"Gregoris already has my older brothers under his command," Astana said coolly. "I’m the missing piece. The uncooperative one."

Gregoris said nothing. But his mouth twitched, just slightly.

"It haunts him," Astana added, voice dry. "Keeps him up at night."

"I sleep just fine," Gregoris replied, tone neutral as ever.

"Because you’ve accepted that perfection is out of reach?" Astana asked mildly.

"Because I have standards," Gregoris said. "And you filed yourself under personnel. Not combat."

Astana gave a small, humorless smile. "I’m also the only one of us who hasn’t broken a bone in his presence. That’s called strategy."

Max looked between them, utterly delighted. "Gods, you two are awful. Did your mother survive all four of you?"

"Five. I have a younger sister too. Barely," Astana said.

"She retired to the coast and no longer answers letters," Gregoris added.

Max let out a low whistle. "Sounds like Gabriel would get along with her."

A shout brought their attention back to the ring; Charles had just knocked Damian back half a step. Not much. But it was something.

Gregoris’s eyes narrowed slightly. "He’s learning fast."

"Stupid fast," Astana murmured.

"Adaptation under exhaustion," Gregoris said, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful. "Rare. Especially in nobles. They usually rely on technique, not instinct."

"I told you," Max said, still lounging, "the boy fights like a grudge with legs."

In the ring, Damian brought his blade down in a clean arc. Charles caught it, but barely. The parry rattled through his entire frame.

Damian quickly turned the blade, stepped in, and stopped it just under Charles’s chin.

Still.

Charles froze, chest heaving, lips parted slightly from the last breath he hadn’t drawn in time.

Damian stepped back, lowering his sword.

"You’re finished," he said, not unkindly.

Charles didn’t move.

Gregoris took a step forward. "No. He’s ready."

Charles blinked, eyes shifting to the man in black at the edge of the ring.

"Commander."

Gregoris inclined his head once, sharply. "You’ll report to me tomorrow. Shadow barracks. Dawn. No second warning."

Charles looked between them—Damian, Gregoris, Max, and Astana. His hair was soaked, his shirt was torn, and blood had dried at his temple.

"...I was supposed to be a guard, a decorative one," he muttered.