{SEQUEL TO A SONG OF LIGHT AND SHADOW BUT CAN BE READ AS A STANDALONE THOUGHT I DONT RECOMMEND IT}
In a world divided between the material realm and the Spirit Realm, the children of House Targaryen are caught between two powerful forces. As a Great...
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At the break of dawn, the courtyard of the Red Keep was alive with the sound of steel and breathless exertion. Urla and Maekar moved in perfect harmony, their figures bathed in the pale glow of early morning. Maekar, bare-chested, revealed a striking tattoo etched across his shoulders and upper back—a champion's mark, earned in the most elite trials of the spirit realm. Urla, clad in a simple, backless top, bared her family's crest—the formidable iron sun, the emblem of House Lethalis.
As they trained, Amara and Aegon entered the courtyard, pausing at the entrance to watch. Their eyes narrowed as they took in the siblings' graceful but fierce movements. In the spirit realm, training was more than just a contest of physical strength—it was an art form, a way of connecting with the elements, the spirits, and oneself.
At first glance, it seemed like a dance. Facing each other, Urla and Maekar knelt with their heads bowed, their hands resting behind their backs in the shape of wings. It was called the dragons' kneel, a gesture of respect and readiness. Then they rose, moving in tandem like two celestial bodies caught in an eternal orbit. Their motions were fluid, synchronized—like a sun and a moon in eclipse. The onlookers in the courtyard were mesmerized, watching as their limbs wove an intricate, almost ritualistic pattern.
But this was no dance.
Suddenly, the tempo shifted. They moved with the grace of air, their strikes grounded like the earth. Fire flashed in their eyes as they clashed with ferocity, and their movements flowed with the unpredictability of water. They fought with more than just weapons—they fought with light, their spirits shining brightly as they engaged in this ancient form of combat.
Urla wielded twin daggers, the perfect length for her precise and lethal strikes. Maekar, a formidable fighter in his own right, handled his sword—Forgemaster, he called it—along with a knife strapped to his thigh. Though younger, Maekar had earned his place in battle, his skill far surpassing most. But when facing his sister, he still fell short.
After thirty minutes of intense sparring, Maekar was left panting on the ground, while Urla remained standing, unscathed and composed. She sheathed her daggers with a swift motion before extending a hand to her brother.
"Good," she said, her voice steady but approving.
Maekar, still catching his breath, shook his head with a faint smile. "But not enough."
"You'll get there," she assured him, pulling him to his feet.
A voice broke through the stillness, filled with curiosity and challenge. "Care for a fight, Prince Aegon?" Urla's gaze flickered toward the prince, her voice cool yet carrying an unmistakable edge. "I've heard tales of the shadows you command. I've longed to fight one."
Aegon, who had been watching with silent intensity, said nothing. His lack of response was all Urla needed to confirm her suspicions. He was spirit-blocked, locked away from the power he should have wielded. His retreating back only solidified the certainty in her mind as he turned and left without a word.
