The days passed like flickering candle flames—swift, consuming, and somehow both illuminating and exhausting. In the months since her ritual with her feeder, Caralee Isabelle Sheiffer had transformed beneath the diligent eyes of her tutors and the unrelenting hands of her instructors. Gone was the meek country girl who had once clung to a borrowed sense of self. In her place stood a woman— honed, tempered, and deadly.
From morning to dusk, her schedule teemed with the intricacies of vampire etiquette, ancient lore, the sacred arts of court, and the deadly disciplines of war. Yet, it was within the sparring hall—where sweat slicked the marble floors and the clang of steel echoed like a hymn— that Caralee came alive.
She was not merely learning. She was remembering.
Her blood—ancient and rare—sang with the knowledge of her ancestors. With the aid of Master Olyvar, a mage versed in ancestral channeling, she had begun to consciously reach through the veil and summon echoes of warriors long dead: women who had fought in gowns laced with iron wire, men who had silenced dissent with blade or blood. Their muscle memory had become her own. And with each breath, each sparring match, Caralee was growing into something unrecognizable even to herself.
That afternoon, she stood at the far end of the hall, her breath measured, eyes alight. Across from her loomed the Battle Master, Ser Thomien Derval— a man who had once commanded legions, whose name still haunted enemy bloodlines. Tall, wiry, with a predator's stillness, he circled her like a hawk. His hair was drawn back in a leather thong, and his right hand gripped a narrow fencing foil, its gleaming edge dancing in the low torchlight.
Caralee mirrored him, posture upright, foil poised at chin height, her weight evenly distributed across the balls of her feet.
"You're getting cocky, princess," Thomien said, voice a low growl of amusement.
She smirked. "Only when it's earned."
"Then earn this."
He lunged.
Their blades clashed in a staccato flurry, each strike and parry ringing with a cadence all their own. Caralee flowed like water, shifting her weight effortlessly, her mind slipping between her own thoughts and those of a noblewoman-warrior long buried. Her foil became an extension of her will, responding faster than thought.
Thomien advanced, footwork impeccable, exploiting the minute imperfections in her balance. With a deft feint to her left, he spun and caught her weapon in a bind. She felt the pressure torque in her wrist and released the blade before it could twist her elbow out of socket.
Her foil clattered across the floor.
Without hesitation, she dashed to the far wall. Her breath thundered in her ears, not with fear— but exhilaration.
She reached the weapon rack and unhooked two crescent-bladed scythes—short-handled, vicious, gleaming obsidian with silver filigree etched along the spines. Their curved blades hissed through the air as she turned back to face him, her posture lower, center of gravity grounded.
Thomien blinked, surprised— and then grinned. He jogged to the opposite wall and mirrored her, retrieving his own set. Before she could reposition, he spun once on his heel and flung one scythe toward her like a spinning wheel of death.
It sliced the air with a vicious whistle.
Her back was half-turned. She caught the glint of motion from the corner of her eye.
Her arms shot up in a defensive reflex—too late to block.
But the blade never touched her.
Instead, it struck something invisible, inches from her neck— a wall of force that shimmered like ripples across a golden lake. The scythe dropped harmlessly to the stone floor with a metallic clatter.
Caralee blinked, stunned.
And then— she smiled.
A wicked, beautiful thing— wolfish and triumphant.
"Oh," Thomien breathed from across the chamber. "There she is."
In a flash, Caralee's right hand darted to her sleeve. From the hidden fold, she drew a dagger—small, balanced, and deadly—and with one fluid motion, she twisted at the hip, drew her arm back, and let it fly.
The dagger tore through the air like a comet.
It struck true— burying itself in Thomien's left shoulder with a solid thud.
He staggered back, the wind knocked from him in a sharp grunt, eyes wide in disbelief. His back foot slid a half step before he corrected, hand flying to the hilt of the blade embedded in his flesh.
Caralee gasped.
The reality of what she had done struck her like cold rain. "Oh no—Thomien! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—I—"
She darted across the floor as he pulled the dagger free, blood staining the ivory silk of his tunic. But he was laughing—laughing as though she'd just told the kingdom's best joke.
From the far corner of the hall, the slow clap of Master Olyvar echoed, deliberate and proud.
"Stop apologizing to him," the mage said, his robe swishing as he approached. "You did your job. And he, his."
Caralee skidded to a stop beside Thomien, who extended the blade back to her with a bloody hand, still chuckling.
"You're improving," Olyvar continued, voice rich with approval. "With startling speed, Caralee."
She took the dagger back, eyes wide, her expression sheepish. "You really think so?"
Thomien grunted and pressed a cloth to his shoulder. "Indeed," he said. "You've never before managed to pierce me, let alone lodge steel that deep. That's a first."
"I didn't mean to hurt you," she said softly.
Thomien leaned in, tousled her hair with his good hand, and said, "This? This is nothing, little lioness. A scratch. I've bled more from my shave this morning."
Olyvar laughed, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin. "His Majesty will be most pleased with this report."
Caralee's head shot up. "His Majesty? He's home?"
The two men exchanged a look.
"Yes," Olyvar answered carefully. "Returned… but resting."
Her eyes lit with hope— too much hope.
Thomien cleared his throat. "That's enough for today."
She stood still for a moment, as if trying to read something more in their expressions. When nothing further was offered, she bowed and turned away.
Her footsteps were slow, measured. Behind her, a guard silently joined her retinue, walking a pace behind.
She climbed the stairs in silence, each footfall heavier than the last.
At her chamber door, Lydia waited like a shadow, poised and composed. Without turning, Caralee said, "Renauld will be arriving shortly, I imagine. I am not in need of attendants at the moment."
Lydia's lips parted as if to respond, but Caralee had already slipped through the door, closing it firmly behind her.
Lydia turned to the guard, her mask slipping just enough to reveal the weariness in her expression. Her shoulders sagged slightly before she turned on her heel and walked swiftly down the corridor.
Inside, Caralee leaned against the door, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths. She looked around the room—so grand, so familiar— and suddenly, it felt like a prison.
She rushed to the bed, burying her face into the velvet coverlet, and wept.
She wept for the girl she had been. For the future she couldn't yet name. For the strange ache that had grown in her chest every time someone mentioned him.
And for the hollow throne she was being groomed to fill.