The sun has long since risen, stretching its golden fingers over stone and slate, but the warmth doesn't reach me—not where I sit, half-shadowed, by the old marble fountain in the east courtyard.
It's quiet here.
The kind of quiet that only exists in forgotten corners of castles too large and hearts too heavy. The fountain burbles softly, water slipping endlessly over its carved rim. I used to think the sound was peaceful. Now, it just feels like something trying too hard to pretend it isn't drowning.
I stare down at the surface, watching the ripples distort my reflection.
The girl in the water doesn't look like me.
She wears a deep blue gown that fits like dignity and defiance, hair brushed smooth, not a braid or crown in sight. Her face is calm. Controlled. But her eyes...
Her eyes look haunted.
I lean in, watching the way the light hits my cheekbones, how the bruises are just barely visible now. The smear of blood has long since been washed away. I could almost pass for one of them again—one of the court girls who laugh softly behind fans and speak in silken barbs over afternoon tea. Almost.
But no matter how still I sit, how poised I hold my shoulders, I don't recognize the girl staring back at me. Not really.
Because she looks like she's playing a part. Like a mask molded from expectations and family names. Like someone caught between survival and surrender.
I reach out and drag my fingers through the water. The image shatters.
The ripples carry outward in slow, spiraling rings, and I feel a tightness in my throat I can't name. Maybe grief. Maybe resentment. Maybe both.
Because I'm tired.
Tired of fighting to be seen. Tired of swinging between too much and never enough. Tired of watching everyone else define me in terms of who they need me to be—soldier or bride, daughter or disgrace, symbol or sword.
And yet... here I am. Still fighting.
I press my hands to the edge of the fountain, the stone cold against my palms. I look down again, and though the water hasn't fully stilled, I catch fragments of myself returning.
A sliver of cheekbone.
A flicker of blue eye.
A ghost of strength beneath the surface.
I don't know who I'll be tomorrow. Not fully. But I know I won't be her—not the girl in the water, not the one this court keeps trying to carve into a crown with no teeth.
Because she's fading.
And I'm still here.
Not perfect. Not polished.
But real.
-
A breeze stirs the air, carrying the scent of lilacs from the nearby gardens. The fountain continues its ceaseless song, each drop catching the morning light and throwing it in fragments across the stone courtyard like tiny shards of broken stars.
I don't hear him at first.
Kenin never makes a loud entrance. He was born soft-footed and thoughtful, a watcher in a family of warriors. Not because he lacked courage—but because he understood the power of silence. Of timing. Of listening.
I only sense him when his shadow spills across the edge of the fountain, mixing with mine.
"You always come here after storms," he says, his voice a gentle ripple that barely disturbs the air. I look up.
He stands a few paces away, arms folded loosely, leaning against the curve of an old stone column worn smooth by rain and time. The sunlight turns his hair into molten gold—like our mother's, bright and flawless, catching every beam like it's owed to him. But his eyes... those are hers too. Green as lichen and pine, but without her sharpness. No cold judgment. Just quiet concern.
"Do I?" I ask, trying to sound indifferent.
He doesn't press. He just shrugs one shoulder, a small, familiar motion. "You used to drag me here when we were younger. Said the water helped you think. Or forget."
I look back down into the fountain. "Right now, it's not doing either."
He steps closer but doesn't sit. Not yet. He's careful like that—never invading, only offering space.
"Breakfast was... something," he says after a moment, tone dry.
I huff a humorless laugh. "You mean the performance? Or the ambush?"
"Both," he admits. "But you handled it. You didn't flinch."
"I wanted to," I whisper. "I wanted to scream. Break the table in half. Shatter her glass crown."
Kenin finally lowers himself onto the edge of the fountain beside me. He moves like water, all grace and gentleness, a strange miracle in a house built on steel.
"But you didn't," he says.
I nod. "Because if I had, she'd have won."
He tilts his head. "She still thinks she can shape you. Like a statue. Like one more pretty thing to put on display."
I sigh, pushing a hand through my hair. "It's like she doesn't see me at all. Just... what I ruin by existing."
Kenin is quiet for a long time. I almost think he won't answer, until he speaks—softly, like he's remembering something that aches.
"She does see you, Ria. That's the problem."
I turn my head sharply to look at him, confused. He meets my gaze, green eyes steady.
"She sees all the parts of herself she buried," he says. "The fire. The defiance. The hunger to be more than someone else's ornament. And it terrifies her."
I stare at him, stunned into silence.
"She spent her whole life learning how to be perfect," he continues. "How to use silence as a sword and beauty as a shield. It's the only way she knows how to survive. And then you were born, and you refused to be quiet. Refused to stay still. You made her feel like everything she built was... fragile."
I feel something inside me crack open at his words. Not pain, exactly. Something more complicated.
"She taught me to fold myself up like paper," Kenin says, his voice barely above a whisper. "But you—you were a flame in a house of silk. And flames burn. That's not your fault."
I blink fast, suddenly grateful for the breeze that dries the tears I won't let fall.
"I hate that she makes me feel like this," I whisper. "Like I have to choose between being myself and being her daughter."
Kenin reaches out and gently touches my hand. His fingers are warm, steady. "You don't have to choose. You already are both."
"I don't feel like both," I murmur. "Not when she looks at me like I'm ruining her legacy."
"You're not ruining it," he says. "You're rewriting it."
He squeezes my hand once, then lets go. "And someday, she might see that. Or she won't. But either way... I see it. I see you."
My throat tightens. I look at him again—really look. At the soft golden hair curled at his temples. The slight furrow in his brow. The quiet strength he's carried all these years, unrecognized, unthanked. I'd forgotten how much like a mirror he can be—not the kind that shows me what I am, but the kind that reflects back what I'm too tired to see.
"I miss when we were younger," I say, voice trembling. "Before the court. Before the expectations."
Kenin smiles sadly. "You mean before we knew how much they'd try to break us?"
I nod.
"I miss it too," he says. "But we're still here, Ria. We made it this far."
He looks out over the courtyard, his gaze distant. "And for what it's worth... I think you're the bravest person I know."
I swallow hard. "That's because you haven't seen me cry on the floor after she leaves."
"I have," he says gently. "And it doesn't make you less brave. It makes you human."
A silence stretches between us again, but this time it feels warm. Companionable. Like shared armor.
The water in the fountain stills slightly, the ripples slowing. I look down again.
This time, when I see my reflection, I also see his—blonde hair, thoughtful eyes, the soft strength that steadies my storm.
Together, we don't look so unfamiliar.
Together, we look like two pieces of something broken, holding each other whole.
Kenin leans back slightly on his hands, squinting up at the blue sky where a pair of ravens spiral lazily overhead. The silence between us stretches, no longer heavy, but thoughtful—like a comfortable old cloak. We sit with it, the way only siblings can. Saying everything, even when nothing is said at all.
Then, without looking at me, he says softly, "Want to spar?"
I blink, caught off guard. "Now?"
He finally turns, brows raised slightly, that familiar half-smile tugging at his mouth. "Why not? You look like you've got something you need to hit."
A breath escapes me—almost a laugh, almost a sigh. "I don't want to hurt you."
He arches a golden brow. "Ria, I've seen you throw a dagger blindfolded. I'm already hurting. Just preemptively."
I snort, but the sound is lighter than anything I've made since last night. I study his face—so open, so different from the masks we wear in court. This is my brother, the one who used to sneak me pastries from the kitchen when I skipped etiquette lessons, who once took the blame when I shattered Mother's crystal perfume globe practicing knife throws in the hallway.
"You sure?" I ask. "You're not in your training clothes."
He looks down at his cream tunic, then shrugs, unconcerned. "They're just clothes. You need an outlet. And I haven't fought beside you in weeks."
I pause, chewing my lip. Part of me still feels raw—heart bristling, bruised. But another part of me, deeper and older, aches to move. To sweat. To swing. To remind myself that I am not small, not weak, not caged.
I rise to my feet, brushing the dust from my skirts. "Fine. But don't whine when I knock you flat on your royal arse."
He grins up at me, something mischievous flickering in his eyes. "I never whine. I just bleed with dignity."
We head toward the south courtyard—where the grass grows thinner, packed down by years of drills and duels. The training circle waits like an old friend, ringed with chalk and scattered scuff marks. A few servants pause to watch as we enter, but Kenin waves them off with a flick of his fingers. No audience. Just us.
I strip off the blue dress carefully, revealing the sleeveless black tunic and fitted breeches I wore beneath it. Always ready. Always armored, even under silk. Kenin unfastens his tunic and tosses it aside, standing in his undershirt, lean but lithe. He's not built like our father—broad-shouldered and heavy with war—but there's a deceptive grace in him. Like a reed bending with the wind, never breaking.
We each take a wooden training blade from the rack, worn smooth from use. Mine feels familiar in my hand. Balanced. Honest. The kind of truth my mother's world never offers.
We circle each other slowly, barefoot in the dust. A hawk cries overhead.
"No mercy?" he asks, twirling his blade once.
I smirk. "You're my brother. You get less mercy than anyone."
He lunges first—testing, probing. I deflect easily, pivoting on the balls of my feet, letting instinct take over. Our wooden swords crack together with a sound that echoes through the courtyard.
Strike. Parry. Dodge.
Again.
The rhythm builds—like a song we both know by heart.
Kenin moves like wind and water, dancing on light steps, reading my angles. I respond with fire and storm, each motion a controlled release of the fury I've kept bottled since last night. Each blow is a word I never got to speak. Each dodge a silence I was forced to swallow.
"You've gotten faster," he says, breath short.
"You've gotten slower," I shoot back.
He laughs—genuine, winded. "Lies. I'm just giving you an ego boost."
"Appreciated. Keep doing it while you're flat on the ground."
I twist into a low spin and catch his ankle with the butt of my blade. He stumbles but recovers fast, flipping backward with a grunt, eyes gleaming. He's enjoying this. So am I.
We keep going—five, ten minutes. Maybe more. Sweat slicks my brow, sticks my tunic to my spine. My ribs throb in protest with each deep breath, still bruised from the arena, but I push through it.
Pain is a language I understand.
When we finally break apart again, panting, blades lowered, Kenin holds up his free hand.
"Alright," he says between breaths, "truce."
I nod, chest heaving. "Truce."
He steps forward and bumps his shoulder gently against mine. "You still fight like a hurricane."
"And you still fight like a breeze," I say, though there's affection in my voice.
We lean against the edge of the practice circle, shoulders pressed together, letting our heartbeats slow in tandem. The courtyard is quiet again.
Kenin's voice drops low. "You know she'll never fully understand you."
I nod. "I know."
"But I do," he says. "And Father does. That counts for something, doesn't it?"
I look up at the sky, where the clouds are beginning to gather—slow, soft, promising rain.
"Yeah," I murmur. "It does."
He bumps my shoulder again, this time with a little more force. "And hey—when you become queen someday, I expect at least a small statue in my honor."
"You'll get a marble bench."
"With an engraving?"
"With a warning: 'Sit here and be mediocre, like Kenin.'"
He laughs—really laughs this time. And I laugh too.
The world doesn't feel fixed. My bruises haven't vanished. My mother is still waiting with judgment in her eyes.
But here, in this moment—dusty, raw, and real—I don't feel alone.
And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to start again.
-
We stay there, shoulder to shoulder, for a long moment. The kind of stillness that comes not from silence, but from having nothing left to prove. Our swords hang loose in our hands now, the sharpness replaced by something softer—shared breath, shared blood, shared understanding.
Kenin is the first to speak again, voice quieter now, like he's afraid if he's too loud, the moment might vanish.
"You remember when we used to sneak out to the stables at night?" he asks. "Steal those stale oatcakes and dare each other to ride bareback down the hill?"
I smile without looking at him. "You fell off every time."
"Correction," he says, indignant, "I leapt off with dramatic flair."
"You cried like a stuck goat."
He gasps, mock-wounded. "Slander!"
"You made a stable boy fetch your slipper," I tease, bumping his arm gently. "Because you were too 'noble' to go looking for it in the mud."
"Hey," he says, holding up a finger, "you can be noble and traumatized by cow dung. The two are not mutually exclusive."
My laugh bubbles up before I can stop it—real and ragged, like a lungful of air after surfacing from too long underwater.
Kenin looks over at me, more serious now. "You were always so... far ahead of me. Even when we were little. You'd have this fire in your eyes, like you were chasing something none of us could see. I used to think it was scary. Then I thought it was cool. Now..."
He shrugs, cheeks pink with the effort of honesty.
"Now I just think I'm proud of you."
That catches me off guard. Not because it's untrue, but because hearing it from him means more than I expected.
I look at him—really look at him. He's grown since I last stopped long enough to notice. He still has the softness of youth around his mouth, but there's something sharpening in his gaze. A quiet kind of strength. And I realize something I haven't let myself acknowledge until now:
He's not the little boy following behind me anymore.
He's walking beside me.
Maybe not in the same way. Maybe not with swords or strategy. But with loyalty. With heart.
And gods, sometimes that's rarer than steel.
"Thank you," I say, voice low but steady.
He nods like it's nothing. Like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Then, after a beat, he asks, "Are you going to talk to her again?"
I sigh, the weight of that question landing hard between my ribs. "Eventually. She'll force the issue."
He tilts his head, considering. "You ever wonder if maybe... she's trying in the only way she knows how?"
I don't answer right away. The truth is, I have wondered. Many times. But wondering doesn't dull the sting of her words. It doesn't make the dresses feel less like chains, or the expectations less like a trap.
Still... Kenin's question lingers.
"Maybe," I say. "But if that's true... then what she's offering me isn't love. It's condition."
His brow furrows. "Conditional love?"
"Exactly. Love, if I act right. Love, if I look right. Love, if I fit the shape she's carved out in her mind. But I've never fit it, Kenin. I don't think I ever will."
He frowns, nodding slowly. "That's not on you."
"No. It's not."
He runs a hand through his hair, sending a few golden strands tumbling into his eyes again. "You know, I think she does love you. I think she just doesn't know what to do with a daughter who doesn't need saving."
That lands somewhere deep. Somewhere that aches.
"I don't want to fight her forever," I admit.
He leans back, palms bracing on the ground. "Then don't."
I shoot him a look. "Easy for you to say."
"I mean it," he says. "Don't fight her. Fight the ideas she stands on. Break the pedestal, not the person. Maybe she'll come down from it eventually."
I consider that. It's harder than drawing a sword. But it's... wiser. Gods, when did he become wise?
The wind shifts slightly, cooler now. A sign of approaching dusk. Kenin stands and offers me his hand.
"Come on," he says. "Let's go steal something from the kitchen. For old time's sake."
"What, you want another oatcake?"
He grins. "I want three."
I laugh again, taking his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. My body aches from the spar, from last night, from everything—but it's the kind of ache I can live with. The kind that says I'm still here. Still standing.
We walk side by side out of the courtyard, the ravens still circling overhead. The sky turning a deeper blue.
And for the first time since the arena, since my mother's words cut through me like glass—
I feel whole.
Maybe not healed. Not yet.
But whole enough to keep walking.
-
The corridors of the castle are quiet as I make my way back to my chambers. The evening has set in, and the air smells faintly of lavender from the gardens and the salt of the sea beyond the walls. Kenin's voice, still light and teasing, drifts away behind me as he heads off in the opposite direction.
There's a strange sort of peace in the silence now. It's not the heavy, stifling silence that comes from too much tension or too many unspoken words. It's the kind of silence that feels familiar, almost like a friend.
I pass by my guards, nodding only once, the usual routine of walking past them without any real acknowledgment. They stay where they are, always watching. Always silent. I wonder if they ever feel anything more than the weight of their armor and their duties. If they know that even in my own castle, sometimes I feel just as watched. Just as silent.
The door to my chamber creaks softly as I push it open, stepping into the cool interior. The fire in the hearth crackles gently, its warmth dancing along the stone walls. The flickering flames create sharp shadows, painting the room with the kind of quiet intimacy I've learned to crave.
I glance at the discarded dress from earlier, still lying across the back of the chair where I left it. The weight of the day seems to hang in the air like dust, settling on everything. I pull my boots off, feeling the ache in my feet as they finally get relief. The familiar, soothing rhythm of the castle settles around me, the echoes of my day in every creaking step, every whispered breath of the night.
Then, in the dim light, something catches my eye. A glint of steel, unmistakable against the warm wood of my bedframe. I step closer, my pulse quickening with curiosity.
It's not a letter, as I expect, but a sword—one of the finest I've ever seen.
The steel is strong and sleek, with an almost otherworldly gleam to it, as though it had been forged not just with fire, but with something more. The hilt is intricately carved, the work of an artisan who understood the balance between beauty and function. Ravens are etched into the handle, their wings spread wide, rising up the ironwork. The feathers are so finely detailed that I feel as though the birds could take flight from the hilt at any moment. The grip fits perfectly in my hand, like it was crafted for me alone.
For a moment, I'm frozen, unable to take my eyes off it. The craftsmanship is flawless, a work of art. And yet, I know immediately who it must be from. Kenin.
I feel a flutter in my chest—something unexpected. Warmth, perhaps, or maybe it's just the firelight dancing off the steel. A gift like this is not just a weapon. It's a statement.
I run my fingers along the hilt, tracing the curves of the ravens. It's both beautiful and deadly, a perfect reflection of what Kenin knows about me. The contrast of strength and grace. Of power and subtlety. It's as though he's reminding me, in the quietest way, that I'm not just a princess bound by duty. I am a fighter too.
A fighter who has fought alongside him more times than I can count. A fighter who has always stood at his side, and sometimes, in the shadow of the crown, needs to remember that she still has a voice of her own.
I sit on the edge of the bed, still staring at the sword. The weight of it feels right in my hands—like it's meant to be part of me, forged alongside the fire I've carried since I was young.
The sound of footsteps outside the door startles me out of my thoughts. The door opens before I can react, and there stands Kenin, still with that familiar mischievous glint in his eye.
"You like it?" he asks, his voice light but his gaze steady, almost as though he's gauging my reaction.
I turn the sword in my hands, admiring its intricate details, then look up at him. "Kenin," I whisper, my voice almost lost in the stillness of the room. "This is... beyond anything I expected."
His grin softens, and for the first time today, there's a seriousness behind it that I'm not used to seeing. "I thought you might need something to remind you that you're not just a princess. You're a warrior, too."
I exhale, blinking rapidly as I try to swallow the sudden lump in my throat. I know what he's offering. It's not just a sword. It's the freedom to be more than just the crown, more than just what I'm expected to be.
"You've always known me better than anyone else," I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Kenin steps closer, and for a moment, we stand in silence. The weight of his gift is not just in the steel but in the trust it represents. The understanding between us. He knows what it feels like to live under a shadow, and he's always been there, even when no one else could see it.
"You don't have to carry the weight of this alone, you know," he says quietly. "You've got me. Always."
I glance at the sword again, then back at him. It's too much—this bond, this understanding, this unspoken promise. And yet, it's exactly what I need.
I stand, lifting the sword in my hands, the weight of it grounding me. For a moment, I just feel its presence—solid and real. It feels like a part of me, like it's been with me all along.
"I don't know if I deserve this," I admit softly, my voice tinged with a vulnerability I rarely let anyone see.
Kenin gives me a small, knowing smile. "You don't have to deserve it. It's not about that."
I take a deep breath, looking at the sword once more. It's beautiful, yes. But more than that, it's a symbol of something Kenin and I share—a connection that no crown can take away. A reminder that, even in my most fragile moments, I am never alone.
With a small, grateful nod, I slide the sword into its sheath. "Thank you, Kenin," I whisper, my voice steady now. "I won't forget this."
He watches me for a moment, then pats me lightly on the shoulder. "I know you won't."
As he leaves, I stand there for a moment longer, gazing at the sword on the bed, the flames still flickering in the hearth.
And for the first time in what feels like a long time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I can still find a way to be both the crown and the warrior.
-
I sit on the edge of the bed, the new sword in my hands, the weight of it grounding me. I turn it slowly, admiring the detailed carving of ravens that curve up the hilt. It feels strangely intimate—this gift. As if Kenin has not just given me a weapon, but a piece of himself, a reminder that I am not alone, even when the world feels overwhelming.
The fire in the hearth crackles, casting shifting shadows on the stone walls. The castle is quiet, but there's something soft in the air tonight, as though the evening itself is waiting for something—waiting for me to make a choice, to move, to be.
My fingers trace the carving of the ravens once more, feeling the careful craftsmanship. This is more than steel and wood. It's a statement. A message that I'm not just the princess everyone expects me to be. I'm a warrior, too.
As I sit there, lost in my thoughts, I hear a faint scuffle at the door, the softest of sounds—a shuffle of little feet across stone. I glance up, instinctively reaching for the sword as though to protect myself, but then I stop. The door creaks open just a fraction, a tiny face peeking through the crack.
Cealisie.
Her wide, bright eyes are full of curiosity, her golden hair tumbling over her shoulders in soft waves. She's barely six, too young to understand much of what's been weighing on me, but her gaze is sharp, innocent in its wonder. She's holding her favorite stuffed rabbit, the one she carries everywhere, its ears frayed from too much love.
"Ria?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, as though she doesn't want to disturb the quiet of the room.
I smile at her, softening at the sight of my youngest sister standing there, peeking around the corner of the door like a secret about to be revealed. "What are you doing up this late, little one?" I ask, my voice as gentle as I can make it, trying to hide the sharpness of the emotions that are still swirling inside me.
"I heard noises," she replies simply, her head tilting to one side as she glances at the sword in my hands, her brows furrowing slightly in wonder. "What's that?"
I glance down at the weapon, and a small chuckle escapes me. "It's a sword," I explain, holding it out gently, the hilt still warm from my grip. "For when I need to protect myself."
Her eyes widen with awe, her lips parting slightly as she looks at the sword like it's some sort of magical artifact. "Wow... Can I hold it?"
I laugh softly, though it's more out of affection than amusement. "Not yet, Cealisie. It's not a toy. It's very sharp."
She pouts, a small crease forming between her brows. "But you're my big sister. You're so strong. You could fight anything with that!"
My heart catches at her innocent faith. It's a faith that, on most days, I feel like I'm too fragile to deserve, but here, now, in the quiet of the room with her standing so trustingly in the doorway, it feels like a balm.
I set the sword down carefully beside me on the bed and pat the space next to me. "Come here, you little troublemaker," I tease, the words light despite the heaviness in my chest. "What's your excuse for being out of bed, hmm?"
She scrambles into the room, her little feet padding lightly across the floor. She's still in her nightgown, a soft pink thing with lace trim, her hair in disarray from sleep. I pull her into my lap, feeling the warmth of her small body against me, her rabbit tucked safely under her arm.
She looks up at me with those wide, trusting eyes. "Kenin gave you that sword, didn't he?"
I blink, surprised. "How did you know?"
Cealisie shrugs, her chubby little hands playing absently with the hem of my sleeve. "I heard him say something to you earlier. When he left. You looked happy. You looked like you needed something."
Her words take me aback for a moment. The wisdom in her simple statement unsettles me, even as it warms me. She's six, but she sees more than anyone gives her credit for. More than I even give her credit for. Maybe because she's still young enough to not be burdened by the expectations of the court, or maybe because she just knows me in ways I can't explain.
"I did need something," I admit quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face. "Something to remind me that I'm not just a princess. That I'm not just... this." I gesture vaguely to the castle around us, to the life that sometimes feels too big for me. "Something that helps me remember who I am when everything else seems like a lie."
Cealisie doesn't seem to understand all of it, but she nods solemnly, as if she does. "You're Ria. You're strong. You don't need to be anything else."
Her words are simple, but they feel like a truth I've forgotten. The kind of truth that only a little sister can remind you of, the kind of truth that doesn't come with politics or expectations or worries about what others think.
I hold her a little tighter, inhaling the soft scent of her hair, the childlike innocence that still clings to her. "Thank you, Cealisie," I whisper. "I needed to hear that."
She snuggles closer, her rabbit pressed against my side. "Can I play with the sword when I'm bigger?" she asks sleepily, already drifting toward the comforting pull of sleep.
I smile, pressing a kiss to her temple. "When you're older, and only if you promise to never use it to hurt anyone."
Her tiny nod is enough to fill me with warmth. "I promise."
We sit there for a moment, her tiny hand curling around my sleeve. Then, with a sudden mischievous glint in her eye, she pulls back slightly, lifting her chin in a mock-serious way. "Ria, when I'm bigger, I'm going to be a much better swordfighter than you."
I laugh, a genuine burst of amusement escaping me. "Oh really? Is that so?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "You? Better than me?"
She puffs out her chest proudly, her voice taking on a serious tone. "Yes. I'm going to be the best swordfighter ever. I'm going to be so good that I'll beat you."
I chuckle, pretending to be offended. "Well, I'll just have to warn you then, Cealisie—when that day comes, I'm going to be the one to give you a lesson in humility."
She sticks out her tongue, clearly not taking me seriously. "I'll beat you with one hand tied behind my back!"
"Oh? Is that how it's going to be?" I ask, laughing. "I'll have to make sure to get a sword that's even better than this one, just to keep up with you."
"Good!" she says, grinning as she hugs her rabbit tighter. "Then we can fight every day, and I'll always win!"
I ruffle her hair, playfully tousling it until she squeals. "We'll see about that, little warrior."
For a few more minutes, we sit there, Cealisie nestled in my lap, and we both fall into a peaceful silence. The sound of her soft breathing fills the room as she finally drifts into sleep, her little hand still loosely clutching my sleeve.
Before I let myself rest, though, I glance at the sword one last time, my fingers brushing the raven-carved hilt. The night feels different now—softer, warmer, and for the first time in a while, I don't feel quite so alone. Maybe Cealisie doesn't fully understand, but right now, her presence is enough.
As I look down at her peaceful face, I whisper, "Thanks, Cealisie. You remind me what's worth fighting for."
And with that, I close my eyes too, feeling a little less burdened by the weight of everything else.