"Why do the men always have the honor to fight in war when women have the power to bring the army down to there knees"
A ruthless man is nothing but a man
A ruthless woman is everything a man wishes he could be.
What happens if the rebellion didn't...
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I don't know why I came here. Maybe it's the fight with Imorgan still simmering beneath my skin. Maybe it's the way her words keep echoing in my head, cutting through the haze of the night like a razor. Whatever it is, the restless energy inside me won't stop churning. I need to burn it off. I need to feel something other than this gnawing anger—something more real, something that won't let me forget.
The sparring room feels right. The familiar, cool stone walls greet me like an old friend, the smell of sweat and steel lingering in the air. The flickering candlelight casts long shadows across the floor, but I don't care. I move to the center of the room and begin to stretch, my muscles aching from the tension I've been carrying all day. My body feels stiff, every movement sharp and deliberate, like I'm trying to shake off something that won't leave me.
I flex my hands, feeling the pull of the scars on my palms, the reminder of all the battles I've fought—of all the things I've had to survive. The weight of the past presses down on me, but I don't let it take over. I'm not going to let it. Not tonight.
I grab one of the practice swords hanging on the wall, its weight familiar in my hands. It's a blunt blade, nothing like the real thing, but it'll do. The sound of my boots scraping against the stone floor is the only noise as I begin my warm-up, swinging the sword through the air in long, controlled arcs. Each movement is sharp, precise—my body remembering the motions that have kept me alive this long.
But it's not enough. The adrenaline is still coursing through me, a low hum in the back of my mind that refuses to quiet. The anger from the fight with Imorgan, the frustration of being stuck in this place with no answers—it all comes together in this moment, this space where nothing but the sound of my sword against the air matters.
As I press harder, faster, the door to the sparring room creaks open behind me. I don't stop, but I feel the shift in the air, the weight of another presence entering the room. Xaden.
I don't have to turn around to know it's him. I can feel the quiet intensity he carries, like a pressure settling over the room. The way his presence fills every corner, his sharp eyes scanning the space, taking in everything. I don't know why he's here, but I can already tell that he's not just going to stand there and watch.
I keep swinging, but there's no mistaking it now—he's moving toward me. I don't acknowledge him at first, letting the rhythm of the sparring consume me. The sound of the sword cutting through the air is almost soothing, the controlled chaos of it all. But it's not enough. The knot in my chest won't loosen.
Finally, I slow my movements, my sword hanging at my side as I glance over at him. He's standing near the door, his arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable expression. He doesn't say anything at first, just studies me as though he's trying to figure something out.
I tilt my head, raising an eyebrow. "What?"
He steps forward, his movements calm but deliberate. "You're wound too tight."
