VERA’S POV

“You’re late,” Caelen said before I even reached the edge of the training circle.

“I’m ten minutes early.”

“You’re late to who you need to be,” he replied, tossing me a silver blade that gleamed wickedly in the moonlight. “That’s what matters.”

The sword slapped into my palm with more weight than I expected. I tightened my grip, ignoring the urge to roll my eyes. We stood alone in the open courtyard behind the east tower, the stones slick with night dew, the air already thick with the scent of jasmine and impending storm.

“You know, most people start the evening with a greeting,” I said. “Maybe even a compliment.”

He smirked, his fangs glinting. “Compliments are for achievements. You haven’t earned any yet.”

“Good evening to you too.”

He stepped into the circle and rolled his shoulders, his movements fluid and predatory. “For now, I’m your trainer. Not your audience. I’ll teach you blood combat and power control beyond your understanding.”

“How generous.”

“No,” he said, drawing his blade from his hip with a flourish. “Necessary. Because if you walk into the Council chambers or a battlefield like you did yesterday, someone’s going to drain you with a smile.”

I scowled. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”

“Confidence without skill is a liability,” he shot back. “Now. Show me your blood magic.”

“I told you, I don’t know how to—”

“Cut yourself,” he interrupted. “Draw blood. Make it move.”

I stared at him. “You want me to cut myself?”

“You’re a vampire princess,” he said. “Blood is your weapon. Your shield. Your source of power. If you can’t control it, you’ll never control anything else.”

I drew the blade across my palm, wincing as it bit deep. Blood welled up, dark and shimmering with that royal power everyone kept talking about.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Make it dance,” he said simply.

I focused, trying to remember how I’d done it before. The blood in my palm began to move, forming tentacles that writhed through the air.

“Better,” Caelen said. “But sloppy. You’re letting your emotions control the flow instead of your will.”

“I’m trying,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Try harder.”

The blood lashed out wildly, striking the ground, the walls, everything except what I was aiming for.

“Again.”

I reset my stance and tried to focus. This time the blood moved more smoothly, forming a whip that cracked through the air.

“Good. Now defend.”

He came at me fast, his own blood flowing from a cut on his wrist to form a blade in his hand. I barely managed to block with my blood whip, the impact sending shockwaves through my arm.

“Too slow,” he said, pressing his attack. “And too obvious.”

Sweat stung my eyes despite the cool night air. I tried to counter, but my blood weapons were clumsy, unpredictable.

“You’re telegraphing every move. It’s like sparring with a child.”

“Maybe because I’ve only been trained for five minutes!”

“And already whining?” he said, his blood blade slicing through my defenses. “You think the battlefield listens to excuses?”

“Maybe if the battlefield didn’t talk so damn much!”

“You’ll be dead before your second sentence.”

“Shut up and fight me.”

I poured more power into my blood magic, feeling the drain on my energy. He parried my attacks effortlessly, his movements calculated and precise while I was gasping.

My blood weapons wavered.

My arms shook.

I let the magic dissipate, panting, throat burning from frustration and exhaustion.

“I’m done,” I muttered. “This is pointless.”

Caelen’s voice dropped, ice-cold and cutting. “You’re not a princess.”

I looked up, eyes burning. “What?!”

He stepped forward. “You’re not a queen. You’re not even close.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“I’m watching your hands. They’re shaking.”

“You’ve been doing this your entire life! I’ve had weeks. What do you expect from me?”

“I expect you not to quit the moment someone pushes harder than you’re used to,” he said, not shouting, worse, calm. “I expect the heir of the vampire throne to fight when her muscles scream. You think a crown waits for someone who gets tired and throws down her power like a sulking child?”

“I’m not sulking!”

“You’re flailing,” he said, voice sharp now. “You’re fighting your emotions, not your opponent.”

I clenched my fists, chest heaving. “Then let’s fix that.”

He tilted his head. “Oh?”

“I challenge you.”

He blinked once. “You what?”

“You said I’m weak. So prove it. If I can get your sword to the ground, just once, you back off. Admit I can hold my own.”

He looked amused. “And if you fail?”

“I won’t.”

“That’s a bold lie,” he said, stepping closer. “Fine. You want a real match? You’ll get one. But I’m not pulling punches.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to.”

He sheathed his training blade, drew the real one. I did the same.

His stance shifted.

We circled in silence, our eyes meeting with precision.

He struck first, clean and fast. I blocked, barely. My wrist already screamed.

I countered, low and diagonal, but he deflected easily and swept my legs. I rolled, came up, swung again, closer this time.

“You hesitate,” he said mid-strike.

“I aim.”

He pushed me back with a flurry of strikes. My arms burned. My legs felt like they’d snap under me.

Still, I didn’t stop.

“Keep going,” he ordered. “Or drop it again.”

I gritted my teeth. “Not this time.”

Sweat ran into my eyes. My grip loosened. My blade dropped for just half a second.

He smirked. “Tired?”

I exhaled through clenched teeth. “Reminding me of it won’t stop me.”

He lunged.

I ducked under his swing and rolled to the side. My blade flashed up. He blocked, barely. His elbow grazed my collarbone. Pain bloomed, but I twisted, using the moment.

I dropped low and swept my sword across his hand. A clean arc. His blade flew from his grip and hit the ground with a clatter.

Silence. I stood there, chest heaving, face flushed, my sword shaking in my hand.

His expression didn’t change.

I raised my chin. “That enough proof for you?”

A beat. Then he sighed, shaking his head.

“That was sheer luck.”

I grinned, breathless. “Still counts.”

He bent to retrieve his sword and straightened. “We begin again. Now.”