The golden hour painted the training yard in hues of amber and crimson. Cayena stood at the center of the arena, her sword in hand—a weapon that felt more like an extension of herself than an instrument of steel. It wasn't the polished and pristine blade of a noblewoman but the kind a warrior wielded: balanced, lethal, and perfect for a master.
Freya was already there, leaning casually against a wooden post, her practice sword slung over her shoulder. She was dressed for combat, though the amused glint in her eyes suggested she didn't take this sparring match seriously.
"You asked for this," Freya said, smirking as she straightened. "Don't hold back now, Cayena. I wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of the servants."
Cayena said nothing, her expression calm, almost detached. She stepped forward, rolling her shoulders to loosen her muscles.
Freya raised an eyebrow. "Silent treatment? I suppose I'll have to break that composure myself."
She moved first, her blade slicing through the air in a clean arc aimed at Cayena's side. It was a good move—direct and powerful. But for Cayena, it might as well have been in slow motion.
Her sword met Freya's with a clang, the force of the block sending vibrations up her arm. With a flick of her wrist, she redirected Freya's blade, forcing her off balance.
Freya stumbled, her grin faltering as she recovered. "Lucky block," she said, adjusting her stance.
Cayena tilted her head. "Was it?"
This time, Freya lunged, her strikes faster, more aggressive. Her footwork was solid, her movements calculated. But Cayena danced through it all, her blade moving with the precision of someone who had fought a hundred battles and emerged victorious every time.
She countered each attack effortlessly, her strikes deliberate but controlled. Freya's confidence began to waver, her frustration mounting with every failed attempt to land a hit.
Cayena finally went on the offensive. She surged forward, her strikes sharp and unrelenting. Each swing of her sword forced Freya to retreat until her back nearly hit the edge of the training yard.
"You're holding back," Freya said, breathless, sweat beading on her brow.
"Am I?" Cayena's tone was cool, detached.
With one final move, Cayena stepped into Freya's guard, her blade stopping just short of Freya's neck. The tip hovered there, steady and unyielding, as if daring Freya to make another move.
Freya froze, her grip tightening on her sword.
"It's over," Cayena said, lowering her blade and stepping back. "You lost."
Freya lowered her weapon, her face a mixture of shock and begrudging respect. "You weren't like this before," she said, her voice quieter now. "When did you…? How did you…?"
"I've had time to learn," Cayena replied, turning away. "More time than you can imagine."
Freya stared after her, her expression unreadable.
As Cayena sheathed her sword, she felt the eyes of the servants and onlookers on her. She had made her point. Freya was a formidable opponent, but Cayena was more than just skilled—she was the greatest swordmaster in the country, and this second chance meant she would use every ounce of her talent to protect those she loved and rewrite the course of history.
Walking away from the training yard, Cayena's mind was already working. The spar had confirmed something vital: Freya was still underestimating her, and that advantage was one she intended to keep.
Cayena stepped into the quiet solitude of the Graymore estate's armory, the air cool and heavy with the scent of steel and leather. Here, away from the prying eyes of her family and Freya, she allowed herself a moment to breathe. She unsheathed her blade, the soft ring of metal filling the room as she laid it on the workbench.
The sword glimmered faintly in the dim light, a masterpiece forged by the royal blacksmiths, and yet Cayena had modified it herself during the years of her bloody campaign. Its balance, weight, and edge were attuned perfectly to her hand.
She traced a finger along the blade, her thoughts drifting to the days ahead. Freya's reaction during the sparring match confirmed that she still believed Cayena to be the naive, untested noblewoman of her youth. That miscalculation was one Cayena could exploit—but it wouldn't last forever. Freya was shrewd and adaptive.
"She'll start suspecting me soon," Cayena murmured to herself, the sound of her voice grounding her. "I need to act before she regains her footing."
Her thoughts turned to her father. Lord Graymore had always been a man of strategy, a tactician on and off the battlefield. But he, too, was blind to the danger Freya posed—or, more precisely, the threat of her growing influence over the Emperor.
If Freya's plans were already in motion, Cayena needed information. The kind of knowledge only someone as close to the crown as her father could access.
A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.
"Come in," she called, her voice steady.
The door creaked open, and her father stepped inside, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the room. His sharp eyes immediately landed on the sword, then on Cayena herself.
"I heard about your sparring match with Freya," he said, his tone neutral but curious.
Cayena inclined her head. "And?"
"She was impressed," he admitted, his lips curving into a faint smile. "I must say, so am I. I didn't know you'd been training so diligently."
"I've always taken my lessons seriously," she replied, meeting his gaze. "Perhaps more seriously than anyone realized."
Lord Graymore approached the workbench, his eyes scanning the blade. "This isn't just diligence, Cayena. What I saw today was mastery. Where did you learn it?"
Cayena hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering. "From mistakes. And from the understanding that sometimes, strength is the only thing that can protect what matters most."
Her father studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded. "Wise words. You've grown, Cayena. More than I expected."
"I've had to," she said, her voice soft but firm. "And I'll need to grow even more if I'm to protect our family."
Lord Graymore's gaze sharpened. "Protect us? From what?"
Cayena stepped closer, lowering her voice. "I don't believe the Emperor's court is as stable as it appears. There are forces at play, Father—alliances being formed, plots being laid. We can't afford to be complacent."
Her father's expression darkened, and he folded his arms. "You're speaking of Freya, aren't you?"
Cayena's heart skipped a beat. "You've noticed, then?"
"I've noticed her ambition," he admitted. "But ambition alone isn't dangerous—not unless it's wielded like a weapon."
"Then consider this your warning," Cayena said, her voice hardening. "Freya's ambition is a weapon, and she's already begun using it. If we don't act now, it will be too late."
Lord Graymore stared at her, the weight of her words settling heavily between them. Finally, he nodded. "I'll look into it. Discreetly."
Cayena exhaled, relief washing over her. "Thank you, Father."
As he turned to leave, he paused at the door, glancing back at her. "You've changed, Cayena. But change isn't always a bad thing. Just... be careful."
"I will," she promised.
Once he was gone, Cayena turned back to her sword, her resolve solidifying like tempered steel. She had taken the first step—her father would investigate Freya, and that would buy her time.
But time alone wasn't enough.
This wasn't just about defending her family anymore. It was about dismantling Freya's plans before they could ever take root. And for that, she would need allies, strategies, and the strength to do whatever was necessary.
Her second chance wouldn't be wasted. Not this time.
Gripping her blade, Cayena felt a cold fire ignite within her.
"Freya," she whispered, her voice steady and filled with quiet fury. "You'll find I'm not so easy to deceive anymore."