“Are you sure about this?” Prince Meilek says, reclaiming my attention.

“I have no desire to fight you.” But he’s given me no choice. “You claim to care about the shamanborn, and yet they continue to die because you lack the conviction to defy your sister.” He worries more about upholding his family’s power than about the lives of his own citizens, who naively thank him for helping them with one hand while holding their chains with the other.

Prince Meilek’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t respond to my accusations. I suppose because there’s nothing to be said.

We regard each other. I draw a deep breath of air that smells of damp earth, mildew, and salt. I’ve never seen him fight seriously, but it would be a mistake to underestimate the captain of the Queen’s Guard.

I strike out, not with any real speed. I just want to see how he responds. His reaction is immediate as he knocks aside my blade, looking almost languid. He’s quick, his reflexes excellent. But no matter. The dual swords might have a shorter reach, but they’re lighter and faster, like me.

He swings his sword in a quick attack. I block with both blades and then kick out. He jumps away. I follow, my swords dipping and twirling, moving as one. He deflects my strikes with impressive efficiency, and even though the speed of my attacks should allow for little retaliation, his blade manages to whisper past my side before I knock it away.

We move down the alley, using the limited space to our advantage as the low buzz of the city and the fire fade into background noise. This is not a fight; it is a dance. I dart forward, and Prince Meilek moves with me. He spins away, and I turn with him. I slip seamlessly into a more advanced sword form—Kendara’s, one which she’s never named. Our swords meet in a clang of sharp notes, music to our strange choreography, each strike answered with a perfectly timed block.

I push him back only for him to maneuver a quick reversal, confirming that he isn’t just mimicking my form. He knows the stances, each move skillfully executed. Our bodies flow with the same effortless grace, our swords with the same lethal precision, for one simple reason that I’ve long suspected—because Kendara wasn’t just a mother figure to him. She was his sword master.

Somewhere behind me, Kudera cries out. Water splashes against the alley wall, misting the backs of my legs. I duck beneath the swipe of Prince Meilek’s sword arm, reversing our positions so I can check on Kudera. The guard has her cornered. Her dagger lies in the dirt, out of her reach. She flings a stream of water into his face. He staggers briefly and then swings his sword in a wide arc for her head.