Sleep, a luxury I'd often taken for granted on the hard ground of a battlefield, proved elusive in the opulent confines of Veridian Manor.
The feather mattress, meant for comfort, felt like a suffocating cloud.
The silence, unbroken by the usual sounds of a camp – the crackling fire, the snorting of horses, the murmured conversations of fellow soldiers – was unnerving.
I tossed and turned, the silken sheets twisting around my legs like silken chains.
My body ached for the familiar weight of armor, the reassuring grip of a sword hilt.
My mind, trained for constant vigilance, rebelled against the enforced stillness.
A desperate urge, almost primal, clawed at me.
I wanted to leap out of the window, find Shadow, and ride until the wind ripped through my hair and the exhaustion burned away the tension coiled within me.
To ride until both of us, horse and rider, collapsed, too weary to do anything but sleep, a sleep born of honest exertion, not forced inactivity.
To sleep until hunger forced us to wake.
But I couldn't. Not yet.
I was trapped, a bird in a gilded cage, forced to play a role I despised.
Just as I was about to succumb to the overwhelming frustration, a sound cut through the oppressive silence.
A faint, metallic clang, followed by a muffled shout. Then another, and another.
My senses, honed by years of warfare, instantly went on high alert.
This wasn't the clumsy clatter of a dropped serving tray or the drunken stumble of a careless servant.
This was the sound of… combat.
I listened intently, my ears straining to decipher the subtle nuances of the sounds.
The rhythmic clash of steel on steel, the sharp intake of breath, the muffled grunts of exertion.
The pattern was unmistakable.
A fight.
Inside the manor.
My heart began to pound, not with fear, but with a surge of adrenaline.
It was a familiar feeling, the rush of anticipation that preceded battle.
My muscles tensed, my senses sharpened, my mind cleared of all the frivolous nonsense of noble life.
Without even consciously thinking, I identified the number of combatants.
At least four, possibly five.
Weapons: swords, definitely.
Perhaps a dagger or two.
The sounds were confined, suggesting a smaller space, perhaps a corridor or a smaller room.
Not a full-scale assault, then, but something… more personal.
An assassination attempt? A duel? A brawl between rivals? The possibilities raced through my mind, but one thing was clear: this was a chance.
A chance to break free from the suffocating constraints of my role, to feel the familiar thrill of action, to finally do something.
The silken gown felt like a mockery, a constraint.
But there was no time to change.
I had to move, and move quickly.
With a silent, swift movement, I slipped out of bed, my bare feet making no sound on the plush carpet.
I moved to the door, my hand resting on the cold metal of the handle.
Hesitation was a luxury I couldn't afford.
I opened the door and slipped out into the corridor, my senses on full alert, my body coiled and ready.
The sounds of the fight were closer now, guiding me like a beacon in the darkness.
Finally, some action.
Finally, a workout.
Finally, a release.
—--
The sounds of combat led me down a winding corridor, the darkness punctuated by the flickering light of wall sconces.
As I rounded a corner, the scene unfolded before me.
Three Veridian guards, their faces contorted with effort and fear, were locked in a desperate struggle with a single figure.
The attacker was masked, clad in dark clothing that blended with the shadows, making him a blur of motion.
He wielded a sword with a skill that bordered on artistry, deflecting the guards' clumsy attacks with ease, his movements fluid and precise.
He was clearly playing with them and winning.
My instincts took over.
I couldn't stand idly by and watch, my hands were itching.
Even if these were Veridian guards, they were outmatched.
And besides, a fight was a fight.
Quickly, I ripped a strip of fabric from the hem of my silken gown – a small act of rebellion against the suffocating finery force upon me– and tied it around my lower face, concealing my identity.
It wouldn't do me any good to reveal my or Elara's secret.
Let me be Wraith again.
I picked up the guard sword on the ground as my hands rejoiced at the feeling.
Then, I charged.
I launched myself into the fray, using the element of surprise to my advantage.
I aimed a swift kick at the masked man's sword arm, forcing him to stumble back.
The guards, momentarily startled by my sudden appearance, used the opportunity to regroup.
The masked man recovered quickly, his eyes, the only visible part of his face, widening slightly in surprise.
He turned his attention to me, his stance shifting, his sword held in a ready position.
We circled each other, two predators assessing their prey. He moved with a grace and precision that mirrored my own, a testament to years of training.
It was like looking in a distorted mirror, seeing a reflection of my own fighting style, but twisted into something… different.
But how?
No time to ask these questions now.
We clashed, steel meeting steel in a shower of sparks.
The sound echoed through the corridor, a symphony of same skill and same training.
He was good. Very good. But so was I.
We fought like we had danced this dance a thousand times before.
Each parry, each thrust, each feint was met with an equal and opposite reaction.
It was a battle of skill, of instinct, of pure, unadulterated combat.
Suddenly, a shrill voice cut through the din. "What is the meaning of this?!"
Lady Isolde Veridian stood at the end of the corridor, her face a mask of fury, her silver hair disheveled. She was clutching a dressing gown around her, her eyes blazing with anger.
"Who are you?!" she demanded, her gaze fixed on the masked man.
The masked man, seeing that the element of surprise was lost and a stalemate had been reached, disengaged, leaping back with a swift, agile movement.
He gave a slight bow in Lady Isolde's direction, a gesture of mocking courtesy, then turned and fled.
"Guards! Stop him!" Lady Isolde shrieked, but her gaze quickly shifted to me, narrowing with suspicion and rage. "You! Stay where you are!"
But I couldn't.
Not now.
The questions swirling in my mind, fueled by the unsettling familiarity of his fighting style, were too compelling.
And, perhaps, a part of me simply needed to know.
Ignoring Lady Isolde's furious commands, I took off after him, my bare feet silent on the marble floor. "Don't you dare disobey me!" she screamed behind me, her voice echoing with impotent fury. "Come back here, you ungrateful…!"
Her words faded as I pursued him relentlessly, my blood singing with the thrill of the chase and a growing sense of unease. He was heading for the main entrance, towards the open grounds.
He vaulted over a low wall, disappearing into the darkness of the gardens. I followed, leaping over the wall with ease, my bare feet landing silently on the dew-kissed grass.
I chased him through the manicured lawns, past the silent fountains, and into the wilder, untamed part of the estate, where the trees grew thick and the shadows deepened.
Finally, I saw him.
He stood in the clearing, bathed in silver moonlight, his sword catching the light like a whisper of steel. He wasn't running anymore. He was waiting.
Tall. Unmoving. A figure carved from shadow and moonlight—dangerous, unreadable. And yet… something about him unsettled me in a way battle never had.
My breath came fast, my pulse hammering—not from the chase, not from exhaustion. This was different. A strange, unfamiliar pull tightened in my chest, sharp and distracting. Not fear. Not anger.
Something else entirely.
My grip on my sword faltered for just a moment.
Who was this masked man?
And why did his stance, his movements, his presence feel so damn familiar?
And worse—why does my heart race like this?