Salira's body had never been harmed.
That fact clung to Iris like cold mist, refusing to leave her alone.
She stood in her study, surrounded by blueprints, oil stains, and carefully scribbled theories—her mind caught in a loop that refused to let go.
Iris died. She remembered that pain with too much clarity to be wrong.
But Salira… had never died. Not even a scratch when Iris woke up in her body.
Which led to one question:
> Where did Salira's soul go?
The thought scratched against her mind like a ticking clock.
> Maybe it had faded.
Maybe the shock drove it out.
Maybe…
Her gaze dropped to her hands—pale and still.
No signs of possession. No echoes of another mind.
But something deep in her chest said: No.
It wasn't that easy. It never was.
> "No," she whispered. "Her soul couldn't have just disappeared…"
Then it hit her.
> Unless—
"Milady!"
The knock at her door made her flinch.
A maid stepped in, curtseying.
> "His grace requests your presence. In the training grounds."
What?!
"Training—why me?" Iris asked, half-distracted.
The maid didn't answer, only gestured politely. Iris waved her off, turning back to gather her designs.
She reached for her scrolls—then froze.
> One was gone.
She flipped through them frantically. Six blueprints, not seven.
And then she noticed the coat.
A familiar weight on her chair.
> Adam's coat.
Her heart stumbled. How had she not noticed it before?
How had he gotten in?
How long had he been watching?
Iris shoved the remaining scrolls into the cabinet, mind spinning.
She barely heard the maid return until fabric was shoved into her arms.
> "His grace instructed that you wear this."
Trousers. A corset. Boots meant for movement, not fashion.
"Why would I—"
> "He said to wear it. And come."
There was no room for argument in the maid's tone.
---
Down in the training grounds, the morning light glinted off stone and sweat.
Iris arrived, her hair braided down her back, her steps unsure. She barely had time to speak when a wooden sword was thrown at her.
She flinched—caught it by the hilt—
> Too late.
Before she could blink, a blur rushed toward her.
She didn't dodge. She couldn't. Who could dodge the blood prince?
Adam's strike stopped just inches from her shoulder, but the wind of it pushed her hair back.
He was calm. Focused. Deadly serious.
> "If you're going to design weapons," he said,
"You need to learn how to use them."
Iris stared at him, stunned.
> "You want me to fight you?!
"
Adam raised his own sword again, his voice even.
> "No.
I want you to survive."
And then he came at her—again.