Of Thrones and Heartstones #BL

11. Of Straining and Training

The night ended without much further fanfare. Myriem knew he should have stayed back to join a private lounge and gain favour with the Aselan ministers, but he was, quite honestly, not in any mood to. He thus left after sending Ruey to inform a few of his confidants he was leaving, implying they should pick up his slack. He'd apologize later.

Once hidden in the shadows, it was easy to stay unnoticed. Most servants were busy with the banquet, attending to the officials in some fashion or the other, and while the guards were on high alert, Myriem knew their schedules well. 

It was mildly irritating to firsthand see and exploit all the many flaws in the castle's defense, but, well. It worked in his favour. He'd send a complain to Havine later.

Cloaked and out of his ceremonial garb, Myriem made his way down to the Third Training Hall in the Royal Stadium. While not in poor shape, it lacked the inspiring atmosphere such stadiums usually emanated. The Capital Coliseum and its many tall viewing benches was further out in the capital city, located to allow citizens to come spectate when events were held. This stadium was primarily used for private military affairs and training, resulting in it being much less frequently used. 

If one knew the castle well, they could easily find their way into the Royal Stadium. There were few guards around this eerie and unused execution venue, and a word was spread between servants that the the dying wails of the beheaded rang through the halls. It was thus avoided unless necessary, making it the perfect meeting spot for two unruly brats shirking their duties.

The halls were separate an were dark and silent, Myriem's footfall the only noise echoing throughout, a few torches all that lit his path. 

But the eerie and desolate atmosphere was familiar and comforting. Myriem lifted a hand and ran his fingers along the cold, stony walls as he walked, recalling the many times he'd dash through these same halls, playing truant and avoiding his tutors. Myriem knew every crevice that he could hide in, every mouse hole and crack in the wall. He had spent too long in these halls to find them uncanny. These execution chambers were his only playground as a young prince.  

As he walked, he heard the muffled clang of a sword originating nowhere other than the Third Training Hall, and the corner of his lips pulled upwards. It was the sound of home.  

Myriem didn't rush. He cognized the chimes and tolls he was hearing, quickly deducing what Darien was doing - sharpening his blade through repeated barbs against the stone statues, likely wearing weights on his body to temper his might. When he arrived at the entrance to the hall, he let his fingers rest on the side of the simple hatched door and waited, eyes half-lidded, the irritation from the banquet long faded away into a content fulfillment that he'd been missing dearly.

As he expected, it took only a few minutes before a massive force hit the door from the inside, causing the door to quiver on its last legs. Darien was getting impatient. Myriem's lips twitched in amusement, but he smoothed his face over before opening the door, lest he vex Darien further.

The training hall was only illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through a large window at one end. The sun-blocking curtains had long been ripped apart, but they were unnecessary. Myriem stepped over the now-dented shield Darien had whipped at the door, the faint scent of rusted metal drifting over from the breeze coasting in from the window. 

Darien was standing in the center of the training hall, shirtless, panting, with a sword in each hand. 

He wiped at the sweat on his forehead with a wristband before looking up to glare at Myriem.

Myriem openly appreciated the sight. The moonlight made the sheen of sweat on Darien's body shimmer, creating a halo around his sinewy frame. He looked almost ethereal.