He woke before the bell.
His hands still hurt. Not sharp pain—just a constant throb under the bandages. He sat up slowly and reached for the flask by the cot. Water gone. No surprise. His throat was dry from breathing through clenched teeth in sleep.
He pulled on his boots and stood. His legs didn't shake this time.
That was new.
The barracks were still. The guards rotated out hours ago. The hearth near the corner had burned down to faint orange coals.
Leon stepped into the hallway and made for the courtyard.
The morning air was cold. Fog clung low over the grass, and dew wet his boots as he crossed toward the ring.
He didn't reach for a sword.
He walked to the well, pulled the rope once, and filled the basin at the trough again. No rush. No voices yet. No Yundar.
He dipped his hands in and started cleaning the blood from under his nails before it dried into the wraps.
The silence broke with clattering hooves.
He turned.
A black carriage rolled into the front square, its wheels lined with gold and silver trim. Three knights on horseback rode ahead, armored in deep violet and chrome.
The insignia painted on the carriage door—spiraled lily crest on a silver circle.
Leon froze.
House Veiren.
She'd arrived early.
The carriage door opened. One foot stepped down first—black boot, polished. Then a flash of royal blue.
The girl who stepped out wore a traveling cloak and a sword at her hip.
Princess Isabel Veiren.
First daughter of the King's cousin. Third in line by political convenience. Dangerous by her own design.
She didn't wait for the guards. She walked straight through the manor gates like she owned the stone beneath her feet.
Leon stepped back into the courtyard shadows before she could see him.
He didn't need to be involved in whatever show she came to put on.
But her eyes swept the yard once—and landed on him anyway.
She paused.
He held her gaze for a second.
Then turned toward the shed like nothing happened.
Yundar found him five minutes later, elbow-deep in polishing oil, working rust off the training axe's grip.
"She's early," the knight said.
Leon didn't look up. "I saw."
"Didn't expect her for another week. Must've heard something."
Leon rubbed harder. "Then it's a bad time for delays."
Yundar grunted. "Don't pick a fight with her."
"I'm not planning to."
"Doesn't matter. You don't need to plan. She'll sniff you out anyway."
Leon paused. "You sound worried."
"I sound experienced."
They skipped drills.
Yundar ran Leon through combat patterns—real sequences now, full movement, footwork, short-range attacks. The axe came easier this time. Leon's arms remembered the balance. His legs followed when he pivoted.
The weight didn't fight him anymore.
Yundar watched closely. No praise. No correction.
Just silence between sets.
It was the most approval Leon had gotten since starting.
He didn't waste it.
The day stretched.
By mid-afternoon, servants were racing to prepare the upper hall. Banners hung. The dining table reset. The hearth lit in full blaze. Word spread fast.
The princess had brought papers.
And intentions.
Leon stayed in the lower yard, running guard drills with a blunt sword until his legs shook again.
He didn't ask for details. He already knew what was coming.
House Veiren wasn't just here for politics.
They wanted alliances.
And their eyes had always drifted toward Valhart.
When he entered the outer corridor after dusk, the main hall door was cracked open.
He paused.
Inside, voices echoed off the walls—soft laughter, clinking goblets, and the low tone of his father's voice. The princess answered with something smooth. Practiced. He couldn't make out the words, but he recognized the tempo.
It wasn't formal.
It was calculated.
Leon turned to leave.
"Are you going to come in," Isabel called from behind the door, "or keep hiding behind the stone like a guilty thief?"
He stopped.
Slowly, he turned back.
The door opened wider. Isabel stood in the archway now, hair braided, her royal blue sash tied over light armor. She had changed since the courtyard. Still elegant. Still sharp. But not playing innocent anymore.
Leon said nothing.
"I asked for you," she added. "They said you were busy."
"I was," he said.
"With what?"
He raised one hand. Let the wrapped fingers speak for him.
Her eyes flicked down. One brow arched.
She stepped aside. "Then I won't waste your time."
Leon stared at her a beat longer.
Then he walked past her into the hall.
Leon didn't take a seat.
The nobles lining the long dining table turned to glance at him—some curious, others barely hiding their amusement. His brother raised a brow but said nothing. Lord Cedric gave him a nod, slow and unreadable.
Leon stopped just short of the table and waited.
Isabel took her seat again at the head of the guest side, chin propped on her knuckles. "You've changed."
He kept his voice low. "You haven't."
A small smile curved her lips. "Still blunt."
"Still watching."
"Someone has to."
The silence stretched. A servant stepped forward, offering Leon a cup. He waved it off.
"Suit yourself," Isabel murmured.
He didn't respond. He was already scanning the table—identifying who she brought, who was missing, who looked too comfortable beside her.
One man—mid-thirties, dressed in soft silk and no blade—smiled too long when Leon met his eyes. A court handler. The kind who whispered between kingdoms.
Leon looked away.
"I asked your father for a tour of the grounds," Isabel said. "Tomorrow morning. He suggested you escort me."
Leon finally turned to her again. "Did he?"
"He seemed to think I'd enjoy it."
Her gaze held his.
He knew that look.
Not an invitation.
A move.
And she'd already made it.
Leon took a moment before responding. He simply nodded once, turned around, and exited the hall without awaiting dismissal.
Behind him, the space resumed its cadence—soft conversations, clinking mugs, the gradual tightening of noble threads he could already sense tugging. He entered the hallway, allowed the door to close behind him, and breathed out through his nose.
Thus, she was present to engage in politics. Alright.
He secured the wrappings on his right hand while walking.
The following day, he would show her the tour she desired.
However, it wouldn't be an easy stroll through floral paths. It would involve rock, effort, and metal.