The morning air in the Capital didn't bite like the North. Birdsong floated through the grounds, broken now and then by the sharp sound of blades.
Zarius, barely fifteen and already carrying the broad-shouldered gravity of a man who knew his lineage was a burden, stood centered on the sand-dusted stone. He kept a steady rhythm to his breathing, calm and controlled. Across from him, Yerel danced. The prince was younger, maybe ten or eleven, and he didn't have Zarius's steady presence, but he made up for it with quick, restless energy.. He moved in fits and starts, a blur of white linen and blonde hair that caught the sunlight like a polished coin.
It wasn't a spar between strangers. Every lunging thrust from Yerel was a question, every block from Zarius was a firm, quiet answer.
