The noon pressed down on Berkimhum like a secret too heavy to bear. Wind whispered through the palace gardens, rustling the dew-drenched leaves, carrying the faint scent of damp soil and burned mana. In the private courtyard, Lara stood alone.
Her hands trembled, not from weakness—but restraint.
The training ground was soaked in red sunlight , her sword shimmering like a streak of frozen lightning as she drove it forward again, and again, and again. Each strike hissed through the air with desperate precision.
'You have to stay strong.'
Her muscles screamed. Her wrists burned. Sweat matted her blue hair to her temples and spine. The echo of Claire's words haunted her, when she had asked for some extra advice, threading through her mind like smoke:
'If you want to be his mate in the future, you'll need to accept concubines. He's the future king. He will need heirs. Many, if possible.'
Lara's blade halted mid-swing.
