Sarisa pressed the wax seal onto the last document with a sigh that trembled on the edge of relief and exhaustion.
Official requests for increased security. Rotating shifts for guards. Special orders for enchanted barriers on every entry.
Her fingers were stained with ink, her eyes felt raw from reading the same lines of protocol over and over.
There was a growing stack of scrolls "urgent," always "urgent" still untouched on her left. But for now, the most pressing matters were finished.
She leaned back in her chair, massaging the bridge of her nose. If only the world would give her a moment of peace a chance, to forget the chaos and fear that had haunted the palace since the attack.
Even now, she could feel a tingle along her skin, a constant awareness that something was off, unfinished.
She was still lost in thought when the door opened, almost silently.
Lara slipped inside, all sharp lines and gold-trimmed black.
The new uniform was doing something unholy to Sarisa's concentration: crisp white shirt under the black and gold, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms sculpted by years of battle, muscles tense but at ease, every line fitting just so.
Her dark hair was tied back, accentuating the curve of her horns and the set of her jaw, and even the most severe edges of the uniform couldn't hide the way she moved—predatory, graceful, unbothered by anyone's gaze.
Sarisa tried to school her face into something cool, something appropriate, but the internal effect was disastrous.
She felt her thoughts scatter—half falling into admiration, half into memory, and the rest into that slow-burning ache that always came when Lara was near.
Honestly, this is ridiculous, she chided herself. You're supposed to be a queen. Act like it.
Lara stopped just inside the door, offering a crisp bow—more playful than formal. "Reporting for duty, Your Highness."
Sarisa kept her expression smooth, raising one brow as she gathered the last of her composure. "On time, for once. Should I mark it on the calendar?"
Lara's mouth quirked. "Careful. If you praise me too much, I might get ideas."
Sarisa stacked her papers, determined not to let Lara see her smile.
"We have an inspection in ten minutes. The new recruits are training in the south yard. Mother wants a full report, and she insists you accompany me. Something about demonstrating 'proper martial vigilance.'"
"Sounds like a party," Lara said, rolling her shoulders. "Will you be leading the drills, or just watching?"
Sarisa arched a brow. "I leave the swordplay to the professionals. I'll be observing from a safe distance—three feet, to be exact. You know the rules."
Lara smirked, giving a mock salute. "As Her Majesty commands."
If the rest of the palace staff noticed Sarisa's distracted air as they made their way through the corridors, they said nothing.
She moved with practiced grace, head high, golden tattoos visible on her wrists as she greeted guards and scribes.
Lara followed a pace behind close, but never crowding, eyes alert and scanning every shadow. The maids gave them both a wide berth, but not without a flurry of surreptitious glances in Lara's direction.
Is it just the uniform? Sarisa wondered, feeling heat creep up her neck. Or is it her? Probably both. The effect was undeniable.
They emerged onto the training yard, where the clangor of steel on steel rang through the air.
Rows of fresh-faced soldiers some Celestian, some human, a few with demon blood were sparring in pairs under the watchful eye of the Captain of the Guard.
Sarisa spotted Aliyah perched atop a fence post, cheering for her favorite recruits, and Kaelith nearby, already plotting some minor chaos with a group of older trainees.
The Captain bowed deeply as Sarisa approached. "Your Highness. The recruits are ready for demonstration. Would you care to address them?"
Sarisa nodded, summoning her "public" voice—firm, clear, composed. "Thank you, Captain. I trust today's drills will be thorough. We are depending on you all to protect not just this castle, but the future of our realm."
The soldiers snapped to attention, saluting with practiced unity.
Lara, however, did not stand quietly by. She crossed to the sparring area, rolling up her sleeves further, and with a quick nod to the Captain, selected a wooden practice sword from the rack.
There was an immediate stir among the recruits. Everyone knew the stories—how Lara had held a line alone against six demon mercenaries, how she had once broken up a riot in the city with nothing but a broom, how her training sessions were infamous for leaving even the cockiest soldiers begging for mercy.
"Anyone want a match?" Lara called, voice carrying over the yard. "Winner gets bragging rights—and extra dessert at dinner."
Every hand shot up. Even some of the older guards looked tempted.
Sarisa sat on a low stone wall at the edge of the yard, folding her hands in her lap and trying to appear nonchalant.
She was acutely aware of every glance Lara tossed her way, every flicker of mischief in those red eyes.
Lara took on three recruits at once, spinning her wooden sword with an ease that was almost mocking.
She dodged, swept, and disarmed them, laughing as she went. She was relentless, never cruel, but never gentle either—any soldier, regardless of rank, was fair game for her teasing, her sly remarks, and the inevitable, bruising lessons.
The more serious they became, the naughtier Lara's tactics grew: winks, feints, even a few shameless flourishes with her horns or tail.
At one point, she caught a particularly eager recruit in a headlock, only to let him go with a grin. "You're leading with your pride, not your sword. Never works out, trust me."
Even the Captain had to fight a smile. Sarisa, for her part, did not smile—at least not outwardly.
Inside, she was a maelstrom of feelings: pride, exasperation, longing, and an unmistakable sense of vulnerability.
She couldn't help watching the ripple of muscle under Lara's uniform, the easy athleticism, the way she belonged on the field and in the world in a way Sarisa had always envied.
The sun climbed higher, warming the stones, turning the air to gold. Sweat beaded on Lara's brow, her dark hair damp at the temples.
When she finally called a break, the recruits were panting, grinning, begging for another round.
Sarisa stood, intending to offer thanks, but before she could speak, a shadow fell across her seat.
Vaelen approached, immaculate in navy and silver, his demeanor relaxed but his eyes watchful. He gave Sarisa a polite nod before dropping gracefully onto the wall beside her.
"Well, that was impressive," he said, nodding toward the field where Lara was surrounded by a knot of admiring soldiers. "She really is a legend, isn't she?"
Sarisa nodded, keeping her face neutral. "She is. And she's always been that way."
Vaelen was silent for a moment, watching Lara laughing with the youngest recruit, demonstrating a move with exaggerated, theatrical flair. "I can see why you trust her. And why the others… look up to her."
Sarisa's breath caught—was there a hint of envy in his voice? Or just admiration? She wasn't sure.
Vaelen's tone was gentle.
"I was wondering, actually… Do you think she'd be willing to duel me?" He smiled, a little ruefully.
"I'm not a fighter by profession, but I'd like to know what it's like to cross swords with the famous Lara. For curiosity's sake—and perhaps for a little humility."
Sarisa looked at him, surprised, but found herself smiling. "You'll have to ask her. But be warned—she doesn't go easy on anyone."
Vaelen laughed. "I'd expect nothing less." He stood, dusted off his hands, and gave Sarisa a warm, genuine look. "Thank you, Sarisa. For letting me be part of this, even if I'm always a step behind."
She shook her head. "You're not behind, Vaelen. You're just on a different path."
He nodded, then turned and strode out to the field. The recruits parted to let him through, all eyes now on the unlikely challenger.
Sarisa watched, her heart thudding in her chest, not sure who she was rooting for—or what she wanted the outcome to be. But as Vaelen raised a practice sword and called out, "Can I have a duel, Lara?"