He stood there, a silhouette against the silver glow of the moon, his sword held loosely at his side.
He hadn't run. Why?
He had waited. For me?
"Who are you?" His voice was low, smooth—more a murmur than a demand.
My heart fluttered. Why?
It wasn't the question itself, but the way he asked it. The way it slipped between us, quiet yet knowing.
There was something in his tone—a challenge, a tease… or something even more dangerous.
I stayed silent, my mind racing. The question echoed in my own head, but I couldn't afford to ask it. Not yet. I needed to be careful.
He tilted his head slightly. "That's a rather… unconventional fighting style for a lady of the manor."
His voice had shifted—lighter now, edged with amusement.
"Especially one wearing a rather distressed gown." He gestured toward the torn fabric I had used to mask my face, the tip of his sword barely moving.
I didn't respond.
My fingers adjusted my mask, making sure no sliver of my face was visible.
But my gaze stayed locked on his. He was masked as well, but something about him nagged at me—a familiarity I couldn't place.
"That sword style," he continued, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "is known only to a select few. In fact, I'd wager only three people in the entire kingdom are proficient in it."
My breath caught.
He was right. The style was brutal, efficient—designed for speed, precision, overwhelming force. The Knight Commander had drilled it into me, beat it into my bones. A deadly art, learned in secret, mastered in disguise.
"And you," he went on, amusement lacing his words, "are clearly not one of those three."
A pause. His masked gaze burned into me. Watching. Calculating.
"Unless… you have a very interesting story to tell."
My mind whirled. How did he know? Who was he?
The implications struck like a blade to the gut.
If he knew the style, he could expose me. Not just as Wraith, but as a woman who had deceived the Knight Commander himself.
A man who would not hesitate to take my life for such a betrayal.
Suddenly, my mother's blackmail seemed trivial. Lady Isolde could destroy my name. The Knight Commander would erase me entirely.
I needed to shift the conversation—divert his attention, gain the upper hand.
"And you, sir?" My voice remained cool, giving away none of the storm inside me. "What brings a masked swordsman of such… unusual skill to Veridian Manor in the dead of night?"
I threw his own words back at him.
He chuckled—a low, rumbling sound that rolled through me like a slow burn.
"Perhaps I was drawn by the moonlight," he mused, voice light, playful. "Or perhaps… by the promise of a dance with a mysterious warrior."
The romantic undertones were unmistakable.
My heart fluttered. Again.
He was flirting.
With me?
A masked stranger, in the middle of a moonlit clearing, after a swordfight. It was ridiculous. Absurd.
And yet… exhilarating.
I had never thought of attraction before—not like this. But now, as he stood there, confidence radiating from him, something new coiled in my chest. Not just tension. Not just intrigue.
A rush.
Something I couldn't name.
But I couldn't afford to be distracted. I needed answers, not flirtation.
—--
"A dance?" I scoffed, adjusting my grip on the hilt. "Didn't feel like one."
He stepped closer, sword glinting under the moonlight. "Depends on the kind of dance you prefer. Some work better with a blade."
My muscles tensed. He was toying with me. And worse? I was playing along.
"You still haven't answered me," I said, keeping my tone sharp. "What are you doing here?"
A pause. His masked gaze locked onto mine, unreadable.
"Let's just say," he finally murmured, voice deep and smooth, "I have a personal interest in Veridian Manor."
"An interest that involves sneaking in like a thief?" I shot back.
He chuckled. Low. Amused. Annoyingly pleased. "Sometimes, breaking the rules gets you what you want faster."
"And sometimes," I said flatly, "it gets you killed."
"True." He tilted his head slightly. "But I like to think the risk is worth it." His voice dropped, lower, softer. "Especially when the reward is… interesting."
That look. That tone. My heart betrayed me again.
I forced myself to ignore it. "You're avoiding my question. Who are you?"
His lips curved under the mask. "Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing."
A slow smirk. A teasing lilt. He was flirting. And worse? My pulse actually stuttered.
Damn it.
"How about a trade?" he offered, stepping even closer. "A secret for a secret."
The offer was tempting. Too tempting.
Knowing who he was? That could change everything. Could save me.
But it was also a trap.
I couldn't reveal myself. Not yet. Not until I knew more.
I crossed my arms, keeping my voice cool. "I don't make a habit of sharing secrets with masked strangers."
"A shame," he mused, sounding almost… disappointed. "But maybe I can change your mind."
He stepped forward. Too close. I shifted back just as smoothly, keeping the distance.
The space between us crackled with something unspoken.
"I doubt that," I said, forcing my voice to stay even. Too even. Damn it. I needed to push him back, not sound like I was trying to convince myself.
His smile deepened. Like he noticed. Like he knew.
"Don't be so sure," he murmured. "Some secrets are worth sharing. And some… are worth fighting for."
He paused, head tilting slightly, his masked gaze pinning me down.
"Tell me," he continued, voice barely above a whisper, "what's a woman like you doing in a place like this?"
My pulse slammed against my ribs.
He knew.
Or at the very least, he suspected.
Was he an enemy? An ally? Or something far worse—someone I couldn't predict?
I didn't answer.
Because words wouldn't save me.
Steel would.
"Enough talk," I growled, hand tightening on my sword.
I lunged.
Steel clashed against steel, a sharp, ringing sound slicing through the night. I struck again, testing his defenses, searching for weaknesses.
He met every attack with effortless grace, his movements smooth, controlled. Holding back.
He was toying with me.
"Impressed?" he murmured, amusement lacing his voice.
"Not yet," I shot back, driving forward with a flurry of attacks, forcing him to retreat. The weight of the guard's sword worked in my favor, adding power to every strike.
We moved like shadows under the moonlight, our blades flashing, our bodies twisting in perfect rhythm. A deadly dance.
Steel met steel in rapid succession, sparks flying with every clash.
I struck low—he deflected. He countered fast, his blade slicing through the air, missing my ribs by inches but catching fabric instead.
A sharp tug, and silk whispered apart, baring more skin than I should have been showing.
I barely noticed.
I lunged, twisting at the last second. My sword found its mark—not flesh, but cloth.
A clean slice parted his tunic, exposing the hard lines of muscle beneath.
His breath hitched, just for a moment. Then, he smirked.
"Fair trade," he murmured.
His next strike was faster. I dodged, but not fast enough.
The blade skimmed my shoulder, another clean tear in my gown.
The cool night air licked at my exposed skin, but I refused to be rattled. Gritting my teeth, I pivoted, my blade flashing as it grazed his side—this time, drawing a thin line of red.
His masked gaze darkened.
We kept moving, tension thickening between us with every clash.
The cool night air was no relief against our heated skin, our breaths ragged, our bodies close, too close. It wasn't just the fight that had my pulse racing.
It was him.
The gown, already torn, ripped further, baring glimpses of my arms, my legs—more skin than I should be showing.
But I barely care.
Until I saw him.
A quick feint, a sharp thrust—I grazed his side, slicing through his tunic more, revealing another flash of lean muscle. A thin trail of blood bloomed against his skin.
His turn. A counterstrike, quick and precise. The impact landed on my shoulder, jolting through me. Even through the fabric, I felt the heat of it.
The fight. The closeness. The sheer physicality of it all…
Intoxicating.
My breath came ragged. Not just from exertion.
His scent—clean steel, sweat, something dark, something sharp. The way the moonlight traced the curve of his exposed skin. The sweat glistening at his temple.
He felt it too.
I saw it in his eyes—darkened, intense. A flicker of something raw. Something dangerous.
We fought harder, faster.
Every clash of steel sent a jolt through me. Every close call, every brush of skin, made my pulse go wild. It wasn't just the fight anymore. It was him.
The way he moved—sharp, controlled, dangerous. The way his breath came faster, matching mine. The way his eyes, dark and unreadable behind the mask, stayed locked on me like I was the only thing that mattered.
The air between us turned thick. Charged. Neither of us backing down. Neither of us willing to be the first to admit defeat.
And then—we stopped.
Both of us breathing hard, bodies tense, heat still pulsing between us.
Our swords dipped, but we didn't move.
We just stood there, caught in something we weren't ready to name.
Staring at each other's sweaty bodies with deep desires we never had.
Then—a sound.
Leaves rustling. Twigs snapping. Voices.
My stomach dropped.
We weren't alone.
His gaze flicked toward the noise, then back to me. A heartbeat of silence. Then, just like that, he stepped back.
One last look—a promise, a warning, a challenge. My heart fluttered again.
And then—he was gone.
Gone like he'd never been here at all.
I swallowed hard, forcing air into my lungs, trying to ignore the way my body still felt wired, restless, aching for something I refused to name.
I needed to leave. Now.
Somehow, I made it back to my room. I barely had the strength to pull off my torn gown before collapsing onto the bed, silk sheets cool against my sweaty heated skin.
Sleep hit fast. But even then, he was there, chasing in dream.
His eyes. His voice. The way his sword had skimmed too close, the way his breath tickled my skin.
I should be thinking about the fight. About the danger. About the fact that he might be an enemy.
But all I could dream about was him.
And how I was already losing control.