The blade Kurakin selected for Damian was unlike any he’d seen before. It was one-handed, with a guard fashioned from swooping thin strips of metal above the hilt, and a relatively thin blade. Damian had seen rapiers on the hips of [Duelists], especially in one of the kingdoms he’d passed through that favored them among the nobility. But this blade was thicker and sturdier than a rapier. And compared to the longswords favored by most [Knights] and some [Soldiers], it wasn’t quite as long and was half as thin.

  “It’s known as a side sword,” Kurakin explained as he flipped it around in his gauntleted hands and offered Damian the hilt.

  When he took it, it was lighter than Damian had expected. He was significantly stronger than he had been just a month ago, with his levels having brought a myriad of passive benefits besides his skills. He didn’t get tired as easily, his reactions were sharper, and he even suspected he was healing slightly quicker after monitoring a scrape he’d earned on the road. But even still, the sword felt properly light in his hand.

  Damian swung it experimentally, appreciating how it cut through the air. Sir Kurakin winced, and Damian blushed, bringing the blade to his side. In truth, he had no idea what he was doing.

  “I will be teaching you a defensive style of fighting—the primary goal of which is to provide care for a ward who is not yourself,” Kurakin explained, grabbing Damian’s hand with the sword and lifting it. He adjusted Damian’s grip, moving his hand up the hilt until it pressed against the guard. Then, when he pushed the end of the blade, Damian was able to keep it from twisting out of his hand. “Do you understand?”

  Damian nodded.

  “Good. Then we begin with your stance. Feet wide, like this.”

  As Damian adjusted his stance, Kurakin nudged him with his toe. His feet had to be splayed, knees bent, and they worked on it for over ten minutes. Only after the knight was fully satisfied that Damian knew how to stand correctly did they move on to the next thing: how to step correctly.

  Damian had never really put much thought into stepping. It was just something he did, like breathing or blinking. Most everyone knew how to walk. But in swordplay, as he was quickly learning, nothing was done casually. Everything had purpose, and there was clearly a best—or at least better—way to do every little thing. From standing, to stepping, to the way he gripped the hilt of his blade.

  He learned how to cross one leg behind the other, keeping his feet perpendicular for the best balance. It was also important to always have one foot planted, or risk being easily displaced—especially as small as he was. Kurakin made him spend thirty minutes practicing stepping away from him as he approached, changing angles and speeds at a whim. When Damian messed up, Kurakin shoved him.

  At first Damian was upset at being roughly shoved to the cold ground. But the first time he planted his feet and barely moved, it inspired a strange satisfaction in him. Like he was a rock the breeze couldn’t touch. Kurakin nodded in approval. “Good. Continue.”

  By the end of thirty minutes, Damian was holding his balance more often than he was getting slammed to the ground. Which sounded lame, but was cooler when you considered the fact Kurakin was a foot taller, probably twice his level, and in full armor. A small difference in stance could almost completely nullify his strength advantage, and that felt good.

  Except that Kurakin was probably not really trying to shove him, but Damian chose to take his little victories where he could.

  By the time they made it to actual bladework, Damian noticed from the corner of his eye that Kat had moved from working with Severin to her own fencing practice. She was using a rapier.

  But he couldn’t spend much time being distracted with Kurakin’s absolute demand for focus. First, they began with a ready stance. It involved standing with Damian’s right leg forward and the hilt of his sword resting on his right thigh, the blade crossing in front of his chest to guard him. At his size, the tip of the blade was about even with his eye in the stance.

  “Good, now watch,” Kurakin ordered, taking the stance himself. In his armor and with his larger longsword it wasn’t quite as graceful, but he moved with absolute precision. “If the attack comes from your left, bring your hand up and rotate the blade down, like so.”

  Damian copied the movement.

  “And if it comes from the right, simply bring the blade up to meet it.”

  That was as easy as lifting his blade. Was it really that simple? It felt almost too easy.

  “I don’t like this comparison,” Kurakin said in a gravelly grumble, “but many find it useful to imagine defense as a square. As long as you have an answer to all four sides of that square, you have a solid defense.”

  Picturing it, that made sense to Damian—except for one thing. “What about a stab to your chest?”

  Kurakin scowled. “I told you I don’t like the comparison. Let’s practice your guard.”

  Damian managed to stifle a smile at the knight’s expense as Kurakin started drilling him on his guard. At first he practiced without any attack, Kurakin stepping in to adjust his movements. Then Kurakin actually swung at him—in extreme slow motion. Slowly they worked up to more and more speed, until Kurakin’s blade whipped through the air at dangerous speeds and Damian successfully blocked it. The impact shook Damian’s arm, and at some point Kurakin had shown him how to brace the flat of the blade to help absorb the blow, but it was totally manageable.

  Sir Kurakin took a break to drink from a waterskin, and Damian practiced his left guard a few more times, unable to stop a grin from breaking across his face. It felt good to be learning to fight. “It’s crazy I can guard you with just a little practice. I wish I’d started sooner.”

  Kurakin paused, turning slowly toward Damian. “You think you can guard me?”

  Damian faltered. “Er, maybe not in a real fight. But I just did guard you, didn’t I?”

  It did not escape Damian’s notice that Kat had paused her own instruction to watch what was happening.

  “Point,” Kurakin said slowly. “Then guard. I shall attack your left.”

  Not nearly as naive as he’d been when he left Bekham, Damian expected some kind of trick and primed one of his new skills. [Instant Reaction] allowed him to do exactly what it sounded like, except it had to be primed before it could be used. Which was a significant drawback. Kurakin swung only marginally faster than before, but after Damian activated [Instant Reaction] time seemed to pause for a moment, and he easily brought his blade up to block, even bracing the back of it with his left forearm to better absorb the blow.

  At the last moment, Kurakin spoke in a low growl. “[Heavy Swing].”

  Damian yelped as the impact lifted him fully off the ground and sent him flying across the courtyard, flailing like an idiot. He hit the wall hard, crumpling to the ground and luckily not impaling himself on his sword. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, the air having been knocked out of his lungs. Even though he knew breath would come eventually, it was still panic-inducing, and he couldn’t stop tears from leaking from his eyes as he finally sucked in freezing-cold air.

  A hand closed painfully around his shoulder, yanking him to his feet and eliciting another yelp. Kurakin slammed him against the wall and leaned over him, dominating the space around Damian. For a moment Damian was sure he was about to get stabbed or something—he didn’t even have his sword in hand anymore to defend himself—so he grabbed at Kurakin’s gorget for some reason. It didn’t really do anything.

  “Never assume you have the upper hand,” Kurakin growled, hot breath filling the air between them with steam. “Skills make dead fools of proud warriors.”

  Lungs still burning, all Damian could manage was a panicked nod, and the knight let him go. Damian slid down the wall into a seated position, sucking down precious air between violent coughs. His left arm throbbed, and his back was definitely bruised from landing on the ground and being slammed into the wall. But Sir Kurakin had no intention of letting him rest.

  “Stand. We have thirty more minutes of practice. We’ll continue with guards.”

  Needless to say, Damian didn’t make the mistake of allowing himself a false sense of bravado for the rest of their training. When Kurakin said block, he blocked. When he said step, he stepped. Kurakin didn’t chide him anymore, and Damian gritted his teeth without complaining, even when the knight hammered his guard hard enough to numb his side.

  By the end, Damian was sweating, and Kurakin wasn’t even breathing hard despite being in full armor. But when they finally stopped, the knight nodded in approval. “You’ve made good progress for your first time with a sword. Practice your steps and guards in your spare time. This is not a suggestion. We will continue tomorrow.”

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  The knight paused, then nodded, turning to walk back into the castle. Damian massaged his left arm with a wince, but Mikhail’s lessons on etiquette bounced around his head. “Sir Kurakin!”

  The knight turned, face impassive.

  “You honor me, and have my thanks,” Damian said before bowing low—the bow normally reserved for royalty.

  Kurakin grunted. “It is the will of my liege. But I’ve had worse students.”

  When Damian straightened, Kurakin was gone. That was it. But he felt that might’ve meant quite a bit coming from the reserved knight.

  “I think he likes you,” Kat said in a sing-song tone from behind Damian. Damian turned, seeing her outfit and makeup still in perfect order despite the wolf-commanding and rapier fencing she’d spent the last two hours doing.

  “You think?”

  “Eh... hard to say. Come on, it’s lunchtime.”

  Lunch was taken inside, in a fancy room with a large table, a metal chandelier, and ornate paintings. Above the fireplace hung a large painting of the King and Queen, with Kat standing between them, as well as another young man. It was painted so lifelike Damian half expected the giant versions of them to leap from the wall and demand to be served too.

  Their meal was brought on silver plates and was absolutely delicious. Elk steak that melted on his tongue, vartots that somehow tasted sweet and were fried in crispy medallions, and pickled greens. It was even served with a gravy studded with red berries, which somehow drew the whole meal together. When Damian practically scraped his plate clean, he had to bite his lip to keep from fidgeting with the desire to ask for seconds.

  A maid brought him another plate moments later, winking at him as she set it down.

  Damian tucked in, happy as a deer in an orchard. It wasn’t until he was halfway through his second plate that he noticed Kat was finished and just staring at him. He blushed and pushed his plate away.

  “No no,” Kat assured, waving her hand. “Please enjoy. Our [Chef] is fantastic, is he not? And he has [Moment on the Lips, Sparing the Hips] as his level thirty capstone, which is a godsend.”

  The moment the last word left her lips, Damian winced, and Kat’s face tightened.

  Before they could try and navigate past that, the female [Tutor] from before entered the room and began speaking with Kat. Damian could tell they were reviewing the information and history of the houses of the suitors she was supposed to be receiving after this, and try as he might, he couldn’t catch most of it—much less retain it. All he could think about was the room suddenly growing eyes while they fopped about entertaining marriage proposals.

  [Sense Divinity] only picked up on a chapel inside the castle, though. He’d already asked Mikhail about that. It bothered him, but what was he supposed to do about it? It wasn’t like he could have the chapel removed.

  It still bothered him.

  Unfortunately, it bothered him enough to kill his appetite, and he ended up finishing only half the plate before awkwardly pushing what was left around. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have gotten a second plate at all—he’d overeaten. But he didn’t want to waste it.

  A servant approached and moved to take his plate, and Damian reflexively covered it with a hand. The man gave him a small bow. “Is the young master not done?”

  “I’ll finish it...” Damian said defensively.

  “Of course, sir,” the man said, straightening. “But there is no offense given in enjoying without overindulging.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Damian nodded and removed his hand. The server nodded and picked up the plate. With a flourish he flicked his hand and the food disappeared. “[Clear Plate].”

  He winked at Damian as he walked away.

  Damian had never wasted food before, except at harvest festivals. It felt strange and wrong. Bekham did well for itself, but they’d had harsh winters before—winters where Father Garm and a team of [Hunters] braved near-blizzard conditions to hunt sparse herds of thin winter elk while the rest of the village huddled around scant fires for warmth and prayed for their safe and expeditious return as their stomachs growled. It all felt so... opulent.

  It wasn’t. Objectively, it wasn’t, compared to other stories he’d heard or even the traveling carriages of other nobility that had passed him on the road. Some were inlaid with gold and ivory, propelled by magic, and unwilling to stop if common folk didn’t move out of their way in time. But it still felt wrong to leave food to waste. Not just that, but for it to be common enough that their [Waiter]—or whatever his class was—had a dedicated skill to make such messes disappear.

  Damian didn’t have too much time to mull it over, though, because soon it was time to receive suitors. Or rather, it was time for Kat to receive suitors while Damian stood at her shoulder and watched. They were received in a lounge, and Damian watched as a seemingly endless line of young men were announced before strutting through the door like birds of bright plumage showing off their colors.

  It started to become mind-numbingly regular. They’d approach, kiss the princess’s offered hand, and comment on her beauty. Then she would ask if the journey had been well, or how their lands were doing, and they would always answer that it was quite favorable. The only difference between them was how fancy their coats were and how long their titles took the announcer to say. Even their intonation was similar; a practiced cadence suitable for a [Lord] or [Prince] or whatever other title they might claim.

  To Kat’s credit, she gave each and every one of them the same level of attention, batting her eyelashes at each in turn and asking specific, tailored questions about their lives. She’d clearly taken well to her learning of their lands and histories. Damian made a game out of figuring out who everyone was. The vast majority of the suitors were from lesser houses within Solgorod, but he also noted a few [Princes] from other kingdoms.

  They were the most interesting, usually with different dress and slightly bolder choices in conversation—by degrees, of course. Whereas the local [Lords] would discuss how the current winter was progressing, their local monster sightings, or how impressive Raya was as the jewel of their kingdom, those from farther afield had a more diverse pool of topics. Mostly about how politically valuable jumping into bed with them would be. It was pretty amusing to Damian that they were effectively begging Kat to let them sleep with her.

  However, one in particular stood out to Damian.

  “Have you ever put much time into stargazing, m’lady?” asked the third [Prince] of a kingdom several hundred miles south of Solgorod. As a third prince from a kingdom so far removed, Damian was vaguely certain he had little chance. Which made his attempt all the more interesting.

  Kat gave him a practiced shy smile that was entirely at odds with the way she acted behind closed doors. “No, Prince Castellan, I can’t say I have. We have a long overcast season this far north.”

  “Ah, that is a shame,” the prince said. “In Verdania the stars hang low in the sky over the great forests. They are so bright that even on a moonless night one can hunt by their light. There are a dozen constellations that watch over my people, each with a storied history; from the hunters of the night sky to the great beasts that swim in the ocean above. We even have a wolf constellation, if that would be of particular interest. Regardless of the conditions of a potential engagement, I would invite you to come visit and see the stars.”

  The man struck Damian as genuine, and kind of endearing in his passion.

  “Truly, Nephret blesses us,” the prince continued, and Damian’s face went slack. “Between the two of us, we would represent the entire Celestial Triad.”

  Damian didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the conversation, which lasted a few short minutes of pleasantries. When the prince was sent from the room, Kat turned to Damian. “What did you think of him?”

  “He seemed nice,” Damian answered diplomatically.

  Kat snorted. “They all seem nice. But your face curdled like milk when I was speaking with him. Don’t deny it—you’re terrible at hiding your emotions. Was it when he mentioned being a Nephrite?”

  This time Damian had the wherewithal to hesitate and control his facial expression. He thought he did okay, but he was clearly out of his league here. There was no real reason to lie. “Yes. But I thought the fact he was willing to speak on his passions rather than his political value was... different. Admirable, I suppose, in my opinion.”

  Kat was silent long enough that Damian began to become uncomfortable, having to put considerable effort into squashing the urge to fidget. Her purple eyes had an almost physical pressure when she stared. But eventually she sighed and turned to the doorman.

  “That’s enough of that for today. I’ll continue seeing more tomorrow.”

  The doorman hesitated. “But your grace—”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Kat cut him off. “Let me deal with my father.”

  The man nodded again, slipping from the room to deliver the news. For the first time it was just Kat and Damian. She leaned back in her chair and stretched, the fake version of herself she presented to the suitors cast off like a piece of armor after battle.

  “Gods, I’m tired,” she said as she stood and found a scone on a nearby table. Damian wondered how she could have an appetite after they’d just eaten. “Suitors are ridiculous. I dislike this silly game we play. I’ve been seeing them the last few days for a ball soon.”

  To Damian’s surprise, he felt a small twang of anger. Rather than let it go, he grabbed it and pulled it to the surface of his mind, wondering what exactly had triggered it. Letting it take the wheel, his next words slipped off his tongue nearly unbidden.

  “Is this all there is to being a [Princess]?” Damian asked, and Kat froze with the scone halfway in her mouth. “Eating good food and playing with wolves and swords and having an endless string of men throwing themselves at you?”

  The princess’s brow furrowed, and she finished chewing her snack. “Is that what you think this was? Playing with swords and letting men throw themselves at me?”

  Damian frowned. “Isn’t it?”

  “Isn’t it?” Kat echoed, looking at him in disbelief. “I’m learning to fence for self-defense, and Severin is part of my cultural heritage, and it’s my duty as a [Princess] to marry the future [King Consort] who will best serve my kingdom and people. Is that trivial to you?”

  “Not trivial,” Damian corrected. “Just...”

  He trailed off, realizing he didn’t have a good polite way to put it. Damian had nearly starved when he was a child—multiple times. Every year Bekham had clawed their place in the wild, earning their survival through hard work and the bonds of their giant family. Damian had only seen Kat in the same room as her father when he’d come to check on her. Maybe he was busy as a king, but all this scheduling and lessons and politics felt so... cold.

  Damian squared his shoulders, staring past Kat. “It just feels at odds with the experience of common folk. I grew up working for meals, hoping I wouldn’t freeze to death in the bad winters. I just threw away half a plate of the best food I’ve ever eaten and watched a bunch of [Princes] dressed in clothes worth more than my entire village beg you to show them to your bed. Politely—politically, I mean. It’s just strange.”

  “Strange?” Kat repeated, her face hardening. “Well, I’m sorry my life is strange for—”

  The door slammed open, and Mikhail walked in and fixed the princess with a glower that could’ve melted ice. Damian wasn’t even aware he could get away with that without getting in trouble—much less what he said next. “What in Cirael’s holy name are you doing? Why did you send the suitors away early?”