CHAPTER 237: A TENNIS MATCH

"...you may find a crack in the ice, a path you had not considered. But you will not find it here, in a beauty parlor, or on a sparring field. You will find it only by looking him in the eye and speaking your truth." Azalea added, she felt like she had been doing this w giving advice recently.

The advice was so simple, so fundamentally obvious, that Eltreth felt foolish for not considering it herself. She had been so consumed with defeating Khione that she had forgotten to win Nero. A direct approach. No threats, no displays of power. A conversation.

A new kind of fire ignited in her orange eyes, no longer one of restless frustration, but of focused determination. The day of pampering and distraction had served its purpose. It had cleared the static from her mind. The path forward was no less complex, but it was now sharply defined.

"Very well," Eltreth said, her voice regaining its customary steel. "A conversation it shall be."

°°°

The sleek sedan glided away from the opulent distractions of the Aethelgard Promenade, carrying with it a palpable shift in atmosphere. The cloying scents of perfume and luxury had been replaced by the crisp, resolved air that followed Azalea’s counsel. Eltreth was quiet. She stared out the window, not seeing the passing city, but playing out potential conversations in her mind.

It was as they passed a sprawling, private sports club, its emerald-green tennis courts gleaming under the afternoon sun, that an impulse struck her.

"Stop the car," Eltreth commanded, her voice cutting through the silence.

The driver complied instantly. Azalea raised a perfectly sculpted blonde eyebrow in inquiry.

"I require a different kind of exertion," Eltreth explained, her golden eyes alight with a new, competitive spark. "Sparring is about life and death. Shopping is about acquisition. This..." she gestured toward the pristine courts, "...is about pure, uncomplicated victory. I need to remember what that feels like."

A few discreet words from Azalea, accompanied by the flash of a sigil representing her house, granted them immediate access to a reserved championship court. They changed in the lavish locker room, Eltreth swapping her silk tunic for a functional yet elegant tennis dress in stark white, the severe lines complementing her ponytail. Azalea chose a similar outfit, her golden hair tied back into a practical but still graceful braid.

Stepping onto the crushed red clay, the world narrowed. The distant hum of the city faded, replaced by the satisfying thwock of balls from adjacent courts and the soft scuff of their own tennis shoes. They picked up rackets, their weight and balance familiar in their practiced grips.

There were no words, no discussion of rules. A single, sharp nod was all that passed between them before Azalea moved to the baseline to serve.

The match began.

Azalea’s style was, like her nature, one of elegant precision. Her serves were not overpowering, but they kissed the lines with unnerving accuracy. She moved with an elven grace, her footwork a silent dance, her returns calculated to stretch Eltreth wide, to exploit the smallest opening. She was a fencer on the court, using angles and placement to win her points.

Eltreth, however, was a force of nature. The controlled fire that Kaelen had spoken of now found its outlet. She did not merely return Azalea’s shots; she attacked them. Her returns were thunderous, flat-line drives that hissed as they shot over the net. The power she generated from her core was immense, each stroke a release of the day’s pent-up frustration, channeled now into a single, focused purpose. The thwock of her racket connecting with the ball was a percussive, authoritative sound that echoed across the court.

She charged the net, her movements explosive, cutting off Azalea’s angles and volleying with aggressive finality. When Azalea lobbed the ball high, trying to reset the point, Eltreth would leap, her body coiling and uncoiling in mid-air, and smash it down with a cry of raw effort, the ball kicking up a puff of red clay as it landed, unstoppable.

"Forty-fifteen," Eltreth called out, her voice steady, a sheen of sweat glistening on her brow. The set was close, but the momentum was hers.

Azalea, to her credit, was a tenacious opponent. She adapted, began slicing her returns low and short, forcing Eltreth to generate all her own power. She won a few brilliant points through sheer cleverness, drawing Eltreth in with a drop shot before lofting a perfect passing shot down the line.

But today, Eltreth’s need to win was a tangible force. The memory of her recent failures—the draw with Khione, the utter defeat by Kaelen—fueled a relentless drive. She chased down every ball, her orange eyes blazing with concentration. She anticipated, she reacted, she overpowered.

The final point arrived with Eltreth at match point. Azalea served a deep, spinning ball to Eltreth’s backhand. Instead of playing it safe, Eltreth stepped into it, rotating her entire body with brutal force. She took the ball on the rise and unleashed a cross-court forehand of such devastating speed and angle that it was a blur of yellow. Azalea could only watch it streak past, a winner of pure, unanswerable power.

The match was over.

Eltreth stood panting for a moment, racket held loosely at her side, before she let out a long, controlled breath. A genuine, triumphant smile—the first of its kind all day—broke through her composed features. She walked to the net.

Azalea met her there, a respectful smile on her own face. "Not bad," she conceded, her emerald eyes twinkling. "You play like you are exorcising demons."

"It is a effective method," Eltreth replied, the tension finally gone from her shoulders. The simple, physical catharsis, the clear-cut victory, had done what hours of shopping and pampering could not. It had cleansed her palate.

As they walked off the court, the satisfying ache in her muscles felt like a reward. The path ahead was still complex, a delicate dance of words and intentions with Nero. But for now, Eltreth felt centered. She had been reminded of her own strength, her own capacity for victory. She was a princess, a knight, and a champion. And she was ready for the next, more subtle battle.