Location: Armathane – Inner Courtyard, Training Hall, Duchess's Private Solar
Time: Day 234 After Alec's Arrival
The Fall
The cobblestones were slick from last night's rain.
Serina rounded the turn from the side stairwell a little too fast, half-distracted by the ledgers clutched to her chest, her foot catching the moss-slick edge of the stone.
She didn't fall.
Because Alec caught her.
His hands were on her arms in an instant—firm, precise. She was pulled flush into his chest before her brain even registered what had happened. The ledger hit the ground beside them with a muted thud.
For the first time, he didn't just look at her.
He saw her.
Her breath hitched. His hands were still on her upper arms.
She felt solid. Warm. Real. Her hair had come loose again and brushed his cheek.
And Alec, for all his discipline, couldn't stop his eyes from scanning her face up close: the slope of her cheekbones, the faint scent of cedar and ink clinging to her skin, the flicker of gold light in her cornflower blue eyes.
His gaze dipped, involuntarily—over her lips, parted slightly, then further:
The swell of her chest pressed against him, the subtle but undeniable curve of her waist where his fingers almost grazed her dress, and the soft flare of her hip.
This wasn't the sharp-tongued girl who quoted economic models back at him in council meetings.
This was a woman.
And for the first time, he felt that truth.
Serina swallowed. Her voice was quieter than she meant.
"Sorry. I didn't—"
"You didn't fall," he replied.
His voice was low. Controlled. But it sounded… different. Rougher at the edge.
He let go a second too late.
And she noticed.
The Sparring Floor
Three hours later, she found him in the training hall, arms bared, blade glinting in the lamplight as he guided a younger guard through footwork sequences. Sweat clung to the back of his neck. His movements were clean. Exact. A rhythm of violence without waste.
She waited until the lesson ended, then stepped forward.
"I want a sparring lesson."
Alec turned. "Why?"
"Because I want to learn," she said. "And because I want you to teach me."
He hesitated for half a beat. Then nodded once.
"Very well."
He didn't go easy on her.
She didn't ask him to.
They started with handwork—open-palm blocks, redirected force, stance shifts. She moved well, if cautiously. He corrected her foot placement once by touching her calf with the toe of his boot, and she startled—more at the contact than the correction.
"You're tense," he noted.
"I wonder why."
"You're overthinking," he said. "Combat is instinct filtered through training."
She tried again. This time, he caught her wrist mid-strike and pivoted her momentum until she spun directly into his chest.
Again.
Chest to chest.
His hand braced her lower back instinctively to keep her from tumbling.
They froze there.
Neither moved.
Her hands against his chest. His breath on her ear.
He could feel her heartbeat against him.
And he noticed again—how different she was now.
How grown.
Serina stepped back slowly.
"I'm learning," she said.
"You're adapting," Alec replied. "That's harder."
She looked at him then—really looked.
"You've taught me languages, politics, tactics," she said. "But you never taught me how to read you."
Alec didn't answer.
Not directly.
But his eyes didn't leave her.
Scene Three: Talk of Women
That night, in the duchess's solar, Serina sat brushing out her hair while Vaelora reviewed maps and grain accounts.
The duchess spoke without looking up.
"So… Alec caught you today."
Serina turned. "What?"
Vaelora smirked. "Don't look so shocked. Alra told me. I have eyes."
"I tripped," Serina muttered.
"Did he hold you long enough for it to count?"
"Mama."
Vaelora turned then—studying her daughter.
"You're blooming," she said simply. "Not just physically. Emotionally. Strategically. You know what that does to men?"
Serina flushed. "He's not like other men."
"No," Vaelora said softly. "He's more dangerous. Because he doesn't lie. Not even to himself. And one day, when he finally realizes what you mean to him… it won't be subtle."
Serina swallowed. "Do you think he ever will?"
"I think," Vaelora said, folding the map, "that if he doesn't… you'll make him wish he had."
erina didn't leave the conversation there.
As the fire burned lower, casting long shadows across the duchess's maps, she sat on the carpet near her mother's chair, knees tucked beneath her gown, hair brush still in hand.
"Mama," she said quietly. "Can I ask you something?"
Vaelora glanced down at her, the smirk fading. "You may ask anything. Whether I answer is another matter."
Serina smiled faintly. "How did you feel about Father? When you first married him."
That silenced the room more than any political threat could have.
Vaelora's eyes didn't go soft. They never did. But they drifted—to a point on the far wall where no one stood.
"I didn't know him," she said after a while. "Not well. Not then. He was a choice made for the duchy. I was sixteen. Just as you are now."
"And?"
"And I did what I was trained to do," Vaelora said. "I calculated. I watched. I listened. He was not brilliant. Not like Alec. But he was kind. He knew how to listen to my thoughts, even if he could not match them."
She leaned back in her chair.
"He loved me, eventually. And I… came to respect him. Then to care for him. We built something."
"But not love?" Serina asked.
Vaelora smiled, slow and quiet.
"Love is not always fire. Sometimes, it's stone. Weight. Foundation. You learn that the longer you rule."
Serina tilted her head. "Do you miss him?"
Vaelora looked down at her daughter.
"Yes. And no."
She reached out and touched a strand of Serina's hair, smoothing it behind her ear.
"I miss the way he steadied me. I miss knowing that someone else was fighting with me, not against me. But I don't miss the weight of pretending he could carry what I could not."
Serina was silent for a while. Then:
"Is that what you want for me?"
"No," Vaelora said immediately.
"I want you to have fire and stone."
Serina rested her head against her mother's leg, brushing fingers lightly over the hem of her sleeve.
"I think I'm scared," she whispered.
"Of him?"
"Of being… not enough."
Vaelora didn't move for a long time.
Then she said, so quietly Serina almost didn't hear:
"You are my daughter. Born of steel and silence. Raised in courts that would break lesser girls. If Alec Alenia cannot see the fire in you… then he's not the man I think he is."
Serina smiled.
Just a little.
"I think he's starting to see."
"Good," Vaelora said. "Let him burn."