Chapter 3 THE DUEL

Nicolette's point of view

It's been four days since I arrived here and every night he keeps coming out, it's as if he anticipates meeting me here every night and it's weird.

He stepped from the shadows like a phantom summoned by guilt. I froze, fingers still brushing the edge of the stone slit where I had slid the note through. His voice was velvet and steel.

"Hello."

Panic fluttered in my chest, but I forced myself to bow stiffly. "Your Majesty."

Ashen Vladimir III.

King of Lycans.

And the man I could not afford to anger.

He narrowed his eyes at me, those silver irises catching the torchlight like mirrors. "What are you doing here?"

"I-I got lost," I said quickly, keeping my voice low, sharp like a boy's. "I couldn't sleep. Thought I'd find the kitchens, but I must've taken a wrong turn."

He didn't believe me. I could feel it, his suspicion a heavy fog between us.

"And why," he asked slowly, stepping closer, "were you hiding behind the tapestry?"

"I heard something. Got spooked," I said with a forced shrug. "Didn't want to be caught where I shouldn't be."

A pause. A breath.

Then, surprisingly, he nodded.

"Tomorrow. Training grounds. Dawn."

I blinked. "What?"

"You're strong," he said, voice cold and unreadable. "You don't tremble like the others. Let's see what you're worth."

He turned, cloak swirling behind him, and vanished into the darkness before I could speak.

I exhaled,slow, sharp, shaking.

Training? With wolves?

I pressed my back against the cold stone, heart pounding.

He didn't believe me.

But he didn't expose me either.

Yet.

The sun hadn't even touched the palace walls when the horns blared across the courtyard, summoning the guard.

I was already awake, dressed in the borrowed leathers of a servant-soldier, chest bound tight, hair tucked beneath my cap. The courtyard was filled with weapons clashing, sweat flying, and Lycans grunting like beasts in heat.

They eyed me like fresh meat.

"Who's the pup?" one barked.

"The King's new pet," another sneered.

I said nothing. Just stepped onto the sand-packed ring with silent feet and clenched fists.

The Captain-broad-shouldered and battle-scarred-tossed me a wooden sword. "Let's see what you got, Nicholas."

He came at me hard. Fast.

But I was faster.

I twisted beneath his swing, knocked his knee sideways, and shoved the butt of my blade against his ribs.

The ring went quiet.

A few laughs. Then jeers. Then disbelief.

Three more came at me, one after the other. I danced between them, light-footed, ruthless. My limbs remembered what my soul couldn't forget,my father's voice, the drills in the cellar, the art of survival.

By the time I landed my fourth opponent flat on his back, I heard the murmurs spreading through the court:

"Who trained him?"

"Too graceful for a peasant."

"Not just fast,calculated."

Then came the silence again,heavier this time.

He had arrived.

Ashen stood at the edge of the training ring, arms folded, eyes locked on me.

"I want to spar," he said.

A ripple of shock passed through the crowd. Guards stepped back. No one challenged the King unless ordered.

My throat dried. "Your Majesty-"

"Scared?" he asked, cocking his head.

"No," I said, lifting my sword. "Just wondering how bruised you want to be."

Gasps. A chuckle. A few horrified expressions.

Ashen grinned.

"Come, then."

We circled each other in the ring. The world fell away,the guards, the court, the biting morning chill. It was just him and me.

He struck first,clean, precise.

I deflected, ducked, twisted. My blade met his, not with brute strength but with skill. I used my smaller size to move quicker, slipping past his guard, pivoting at the last second.

He growled when I nicked his arm.

"Interesting," he muttered.

"You started it," I replied.

He lunged again. This time harder. I blocked, danced backward, used the angle to throw him off balance. He recovered,but I was already moving.

I faked left.

Slid right.

And knocked his sword from his hand.

The ring exploded in noise.

Gasps. Shouts. Whispers.

I didn't move. I didn't breathe.

Ashen stood still for a moment, then looked down at his empty hand.

Then up at me.

A slow smile curled his lips.

"Dismissed," he barked, not taking his eyes off me.

The crowd dispersed quickly, guards mumbling, eyes flicking back at me like I was some cursed beast.

Nicholas, the slave who bested a Lycan King.

I bowed stiffly, turned on my heel, and walked away with shaking legs.

The next few days were a blur of whispers and stares.

Servants avoided me.

Guards tested me.

And Ashen... watched me.

He would appear at random,at meals, in halls, by training dummies. Not saying a word. Just standing there with that unreadable expression.

And when he spoke, it was always something strange.

"You hold your sword like a noble."

"You flinch at southern accents."

"You speak too well to have been raised in chains."

Each time, I deflected with a shrug, a joke, a quiet apology.

Each time, his curiosity deepened.

I couldn't afford this attention.

I needed time.

I needed space.

I needed to protect Nicolina.

And instead,I had caught the attention of a predator.

---

That night, I slipped away from the barracks.

The bathhouse was silent, filled with steam and flickering firelight. I dipped beneath the surface of the water with a sigh, letting the heat loosen the knots in my body. My shoulders ached from sparring, and the bruises were blooming across my ribs like war medals.

I stayed until the water turned cold.

Until the door creaked open.

I froze.

He entered like a shadow again,silent, slow, deliberate.

Ashen.

He wore only loose trousers, torso bare, muscles carved like marble. He didn't look surprised to see me.

"Trying to avoid me, Nicholas?"

"I thought this was the servants' time."

"I own the time."

He stepped closer. The steam swirled around him like mist around a ghost. He crouched by the edge of the water, staring at me with those silver eyes.

"You move like a woman," he murmured.

My blood turned to ice.

"What?" I croaked.

He tilted his head. "You fight like a woman. Think like one. Speak like one."

"I-I-"

He leaned closer. Inches away.

"So tell me..." His voice was soft now. Almost gentle.

"...What are you, really?"