Page 31 of Crown of Light and Ashes
Interesting. More pieces of the puzzle that is my mysterious bride.
"Then stop holding back," I taunt her, shadows swirling around my feet. "Show me what you're truly capable of,hatun. Or is this pathetic display really your best effort?"
Her eyes narrow slightly, the only warning before she lunges forward with startling speed. Her blade arcs toward my head in a strike that would have decapitated me if I hadn't blocked it at the last second. The force of the blow vibrates up my arm, stronger than any of her previous attacks.
"There she is," I laugh, genuinely delighted. "I was beginning to think my wife was as dull as she is disobedient."
We exchange a rapid series of blows, the wooden practice swordscracking against each other loud enough to draw attention from across the yard. She moves with unexpected grace, her footwork betraying years of formal training. Each strike flows into the next with liquid precision, forcing me to pay genuine attention for the first time since we began.
"Who taught you to fight like this?" I ask, blocking a particularly vicious thrust aimed at my throat. "The Academy doesn't train diplomats to kill."
"My father believed in a well-rounded education," she replies, spinning away from my counterattack with irritating agility.
"Your father," I repeat, testing the bond between us for any emotional reaction. I get only muted echoes—frustration, perhaps, but filtered through whatever barrier she's erected between us. For days now, I've sensed only these dampened signals from her—as if she's found some way to shield her thoughts and feelings from me. The mystery of it is almost as infuriating as her continued defiance. "How thoughtful of him to prepare you so thoroughly for marriage to a monster."
I smile then, a cold, predatory thing that makes her grip tighten on her sword. "He taught me to survive in hostile environments."
"And are you surviving, wife?" I circle her slowly, shadows gathering more densely around me. "Or thriving? Because I've noticed you've adapted to Shadow Court life with surprising ease."
It's true. In the few days since our wedding, she's taken control of the household with ruthless efficiency. The servants both fear and respect her, the court ladies watch her with jealous eyes, and even some of my advisors have begun treating her with cautious deference. It's not what I expected from my broken bride.
"I adapt to whatever prison I find myself in," she replies, launching a flurry of attacks that force me backward several steps. "It's a skill."
Her blade catches me across the forearm, a genuine hit that willleave a bruise. A murmur ripples through our audience. No one has landed a blow on me in training for decades.
"First blood to you," I acknowledge, feeling a surge of something dangerously close to pride. "Shall we escalate this properly?"
According to Shadow Court training protocols, once first blood is drawn by a challenger, both combatants may enhance their weapons with magic. It's an old tradition, rarely invoked, but technically, she's earned the right.
Without waiting for her response, I channel shadow magic into my blade, turning the wooden practice sword into something darker, heavier, edged with writhing darkness.
"You're following protocol," she observes, and I catch a flicker of something—anticipation?—through our muted bond.
"I'm honoring tradition," I correct her. "Besides, in a real fight, I wouldn't limit myself to mere steel. Would you?"
Her eyes flicker with calculation. Then she closes them briefly, and when they open again, a faint golden glow emanates from her practice sword—controlled, deliberate, not the raw burst of power I expected.
Well, well. The kitten has claws after all.
"By all means," I gesture expansively, "show me what light magic can do against shadow."
The next exchange is faster, more lethal. Her light-infused blade hisses where it meets my shadow-enhanced weapon, small explosions of power erupting at each contact point. The very air around us is charged with opposing magic, raising the hairs on my arms and creating a vortex of energy that both repels and attracts.
She fights with a focus that would be admirable if it weren't directed at separating my head from my shoulders. Each movement reveals more of her true nature—precise, lethal, nothing like the composed diplomat's daughter she pretendsto be.
"You know," I remark conversationally, as if we're having tea rather than trying to maim each other, "most brides spend their first week of marriage arranging flowers or planning dinners. Mine apparently prefers attempting to murder me in broad daylight. I'm not sure whether to be offended or flattered."
"Be whatever you want," she retorts, barely avoiding a strike that would have taken her ear off. "I couldn't care less."
"Oh, but you do care," I counter, feeling a surge of malicious joy at the opening she's given me. "You care very much about what I am to you now. What was his name again? Oh yes—Aslan. Tell me, do you still see his face when you close your eyes? Do you remember the sounds he made as my shadows tore him apart?"
Something wild and dangerous flares in her eyes, even through her shields, I sense the spike of raw fury. Perfect.
She attacks with renewed intensity, her strikes no longer measured and controlled but powered by emotion. It makes her stronger but less precise—exactly what I wanted.
"He died like a dog," I continue, blocking her increasingly aggressive attacks. "Whimpering. Begging. Calling your name until the very end."
The words taste like ash in my mouth. Aslan died too quickly for any last words, his death clean and efficient. But she doesn't know that, and the lie serves its purpose; her next attack is pure emotion, all technique forgotten in her rage.
