Veyara

"You're a little too loud for someone who wasn't invited," I said, blade pausing above my shoulder.

Silence. Then a voice, low and too smooth for this place.

"The sound of your sword was loud enough to summon gods," he said. "Hard not to follow it."

I exhaled through my nose, wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist. "Funny. I don't recall training for an audience."

"Then allow me to be discreet."

He stepped out from the archway like a story half-told-confident, clean, dressed in travel-worn black that still looked too expensive.

I didn't need to ask his name. I knew who he was. The descendant of a merchant dynasty-new blood wrapped in old coin. Not nobility by birth, but by usefulness. The Emperor had elevated their line to a ducal seat not out of love, but necessity. Gold over blood. Coin over crown.

Valeon Aulven.

He was taller than I expected. Arrogant too, but in that quiet way that said he didn't need to prove anything-yet.

I let my blade rest against my thigh and turned to face him fully. My molten-brown eyes locked on his, unwavering. "You do realize this is not a public spectacle?"

"No, but you move like one." He said it lightly. Not mocking. Observing.

My lips quirked, despite myself. "Careful. That sounds dangerously like flattery."

He shrugged. "Or an honest reaction to someone trying to kill the wind with a wooden stick."

"Stick," I echoed, lifting the blade and tilting my head. "My lord, even a toothpick can kill. In the right hands."