Chapter 3: The Warrior's Eye

Talos

The sun rises like a revelation. After six years in darkness it's almost too bright to bear but too beautiful to look away from. Six years of counting heartbeats in the dark, measuring my cell by paces, keeping my mind sharp by reciting the names of every man I failed to save. The light burns my eyes, but I drink it in like wine.

Six years since the coup. Six years since everything changed.

The Empire has been busy while I rotted. They've stripped the warrior's marks from the temple walls, ancient carvings that taught boys where to place their hands for the blessing before battle. Now those stones are smooth, sanitized, emptied of meaning. The practice yard stones are swept clean, too clean. In my day they bore the marks of countless battles, each scrape and stain a lesson written in sweat and blood. Now they're pristine. Pretty. Useless.

The palace ravens no longer fly above the yard or roost on the walls. Ravens were sacred to the old kings, omens of victory or defeat depending on their flight patterns. The first Raven Queen, legend says, could speak to them in their own tongue, and they carried her commands across the kingdom. Their absence makes the air too quiet, like a held breath before a scream.

Strange how they watch the palace now. Almost as if they're waiting for something.

I count the new patrol patterns. They've changed everything, made it more efficient, more imperial. Twenty-two second gap that leaves the rose garden uncovered. Blind spot near the armory that didn't exist before. The Empire is competent, precise, but this is still home ground. Six years in a cell has given me time to think, to plan, to memorize every story the old guards told about secret ways and forgotten passages.

Last night felt like coming home, briefly. A few of the old guard remain, and they surrounded me with embraces and tears while the newer recruits watched uncomfortably. These young ones don't know how to treat me; for some, I've no doubt been used as an example, a threat. Keep yourself in line or else. Look what happened to Talos.

But Gideon clasped my shoulder and whispered, "We remember. Some of us still remember." His eyes held messages I couldn't decode in that moment, surrounded by watching faces and careful ears. Later, I think. Later we'll talk properly.

He looked tired. They all looked tired. Six years of pretending takes its toll.

Now Melianthe walks up the path, and I suppress a grunt of surprise. Gone is the delicate court dress, replaced by practical clothes that allow real movement; a loose-fitting shirt and pants, boots instead of slippers. Her dark hair is twisted into a single braid that falls over one shoulder, practical rather than pretty. She carries a wooden practice sword with familiarity that suggests this isn't her first time holding a weapon.

Still, she's so young. Gods, not even eighteen yet and already carrying the weight of a kingdom's expectations. I remember her from years ago. She was barely twelve when the coup happened, old enough to understand loss but too young to process it properly. The girl approaching me now moves with deliberate purpose, but I can see the uncertainty in her shoulders, the careful way she scans the practice yard.

She's been watching. Learning. Surviving.

As she reaches the center of the stone courtyard, something shifts in her bearing. The hesitation falls away, replaced by steel I hadn't expected. A single raven lands on the wall behind her, cocking its head to watch. When she speaks, her voice carries quiet authority.

"Sir Talos, I need to learn to kill."

The words hit like a slap. Not 'learn to fight' or 'defend myself' - kill. I study her face, looking for the bravado of youth or romantic notions about warrior glory. Instead I see calculation, grim acceptance of reality.

"Killing and fighting are different things," I say carefully. "Which do you need?"

"Both." She sets the practice sword aside with deliberate precision. "But killing more than fighting. There are threats coming that can't be reasoned with or defeated in fair combat."

Something cold settles in my chest. "What threats?"

She glances toward the eastern balcony where Ambassador Cordelia has been assigned her chambers. Empty now, but Melianthe's wariness speaks volumes. "The kind that prefer accidents and quiet deaths to open war. The kind that smile while they strangle kingdoms."

Poison. Daggers in the dark. Political murders disguised as hunting accidents.

"Princess, that's a dangerous path to start down. Once you begin thinking like an assassin-"

"I think I already am." Her voice wavers slightly, the first crack in her composure. "The question is whether I'll learn fast enough to survive what's coming."

She reaches into her shirt and withdraws something that makes my blood freeze - a small glass vial filled with viscous amber liquid. Her hand trembles as she holds it. Behind her, the raven shifts on its perch, feathers rustling. "Do you know what this is?"

I do. Tears of Lysander. A poison that mimics heart failure, undetectable unless you know exactly what to look for. Expensive, rare, and definitely not something a princess should have access to.

"Where did you get that?"

"From Ambassador Cordelia's private stores." Her attempt at a sharp smile falters. "She keeps them in a locked box in her chambers. The lock... it took me three tries to get it open. I'm not very good at this yet."

The implications crash over me like a wave. This isn't the sheltered princess I expected to train, but she's not a seasoned conspirator either. She's a frightened girl trying to become something harder because she has no choice.

"Melianthe-"

"Yesterday Master Willem was found dead in his cell. Heart failure, they said. But he was barely forty and healthy as a horse." She holds up the vial with unsteady fingers, the liquid catching the morning light. "I... I tested a drop on one of the kitchen cats. It died within minutes, no struggle, no pain. Very civilized." Her voice cracks on the last word.

My mouth goes dry. Willem had been the dungeon keeper, the man whose drunken negligence had allowed Melianthe to steal the keys that freed me. If someone discovered his role in my escape...

The raven on the wall caws once, sharp and warning.

"You can't know for certain-"

"I know enough to be frightened." The certainty in her voice sounds forced, like she's trying to convince herself as much as me. "Willem failed, and now he's dead. You’re free, and I'm scared we're both in danger. I found those vials in Cordelia's room, and I think... I think she killed him."

"What makes you think that?"

Her composure wavers. "Because she’s been asking casual questions of the servants about my 'midnight adventures.' She was fishing, trying to find out if Willem had been helping me." Melianthe's voice drops to a whisper. "She's cleaning up loose ends, and we might be next."

"But there's more, isn't there?"

"I've been more careful about listening. The hostility toward Father, toward me… it's always been there, but now I'm hearing it differently." She wraps her arms around herself. "People have never been subtle with their feelings about what Father did six years ago. But lately the comments feel... sharper. More pointed."

The words carry the weight of years of endured resentment, not sudden discovery.

"I heard Lord Alderton talking to someone about how 'some problems have a way of solving themselves if you're patient enough.' And yesterday, one of the kitchen maids gave me a look that could have curdled milk. The same one she's been giving me for years, but somehow it felt more dangerous now." Her voice becomes smaller. "Maybe I'm just finally paying attention to what's always been there."

"But you think something's changed?"

"I think Willem's death reminded me that people die around here, and not always from natural causes. And I think Cordelia might be paying very close attention to who hates us enough to do something about it." She looks up at me with frightened but determined eyes. "What if she doesn't need to plan anything? What if she just needs to... encourage the right person at the right moment?"

The world seems to shift beneath my feet. I've spent a lifetime in service, to protect the royal family from external threats. But this is something more insidious. Not organized conspiracy, but a slow-burning hatred that might ignite at any moment.

"How long have you been living with this hostility?"

"Always." The simple word carries years of weight. "People have never forgiven Father for taking the throne, and they've never let me forget that I've no right to my title. But since Willem died, I've started wondering if someone might finally decide to do something about their anger instead of just... enduring it."

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"Why didn't you go to your father with these concerns?"

"Because he already knows. He's lived with it longer than I have." Her voice grows smaller. "And because I'm not sure he'd see threats to me as more important than maintaining the stability that keeps him in power."

The painful honesty of that admission hits harder than any conspiracy theory. This isn't about sudden discovery of hidden resentment. This is about a girl who's lived with that resentment her entire life finally wondering if it might turn deadly.

Behind us, more ravens begin to gather on the walls, black shapes against the morning sky. Their presence feels significant, watchful.

"So you decided to learn to protect yourself."

"I decided I couldn't keep pretending that hostile looks and muttered comments don't matter. Willem is dead, and I think Cordelia killed him. If she's willing to murder a dungeon keeper to cover her tracks, what's to stop her from eliminating other inconveniences?" Her voice strengthens with growing resolve. "And if our own people hate us enough, she might not even need to get her hands dirty."

This is something more sobering than I expected; not a princess uncovering conspiracy, but a young woman who's lived her entire life under a cloud of resentment finally acknowledging that it might pose real danger.

"Training you to kill will change you," I warn. "In ways you can't undo. And you might be preparing for threats that exist only in your imagination."

"Then I become something harder for nothing." She looks down at the poison vial in her hand. "But if I'm right and do nothing, good people like Willem die while I remain helpless. And I refuse to be helpless anymore."

I study her face, looking for the bravado of youth or romantic notions about warrior glory. Instead I see a girl trying desperately to navigate a political reality that no seventeen-year-old should have to face, smart enough to understand that danger might come from any direction, determined to act despite her uncertainty.

"You realize what you're asking? If there really is lingering resentment against your family, learning to fight might not be enough. Some kinds of hatred can't be defeated with blades."

"I know." Her voice is small but steady. "But I have to start somewhere. And if I'm going to represent this kingdom's future, I need to understand all the forces working against it. Even the ones that come from within."

"Very well," I say finally. "But we do this properly. I'm not going to teach you to fight like a knight. You're smaller and weaker than almost any opponent you'll face. No, don't argue," as she opens her mouth to reply. "It's just a fact, Princess. I can't teach you to take down three armored men who are trying to kill you. What I can teach you is how to stay alive until I can get to you."

She nods, understanding the practical limitations. "What do we start with?"

"First, put that poison somewhere safe. If you're right about Cordelia, carrying it openly is dangerous."

She carefully tucks the vial back into a hidden pocket in her shirt. "I'll find a better hiding place later. Maybe give it to someone I trust."

"Good. Now, we test what you already know." I toss a blunted practice dagger toward her; gently, but with enough force to require real reflexes.

She catches the dagger by the hilt and flips it into a proper grip with fluid precision. The movement is instinctive, practiced, correct. My estimation of her rises sharply.

The ravens on the wall shift and murmur among themselves, as if approving.

"Someone's been teaching you," I observe. "That's not court dancing master technique."

A soft, complicated smile crosses her face. "You did, actually. At the summer festival when I was eight years old. You asked if I wanted to learn to hold a sword. Just like the Raven Queen in the old stories."

Memory surfaces: a child with serious eyes and eager hands, one of dozens I'd given brief lessons to over the years. I'd told her the legend of the first Raven Queen, who learned combat in secret. I'd never imagined that moment might matter, might plant seeds that would grow into this.

"I've learned bits here and there from Father's men since then," she continues. "Mostly they think I'm playing, but I practice when no one's watching. The old techniques, the ones from before the Empire came."

Someone's been keeping traditions alive despite the 'refinements.' The thought gives me hope and worry in equal measure.

"Show me what else you know," I command.

What follows is revelation and humbling in equal measure. She knows the basic grips, can execute simple cuts and thrusts with decent form, understands the theory of targeting vital points. But her movements lack the confidence that comes from real application, and when I press her on technique, gaps show in her knowledge.

"Strike me," I order, positioning myself as an opponent. "Truly mean it."

Her first attempt is hesitant, pulled at the last second. The blade whispers past my ribs without real conviction.

"I... I've never actually tried to hurt someone before," she admits, lowering the weapon.

"The chest is a poor target for a small blade," I explain, tapping my shoulder, elbow, knee. "What you want to hit are the joints, places that bleed, places that disable, where gaps in armor lie. When you strike, don't hold the blade like a lance out in front of you. Keep it close."

She tries again, this time aiming for my shoulder with growing determination. Better; the strike comes with more intent. I deflect it easily, but the killing instinct is building.

"Good. But you're still thinking like this is a duel. Real killing is uglier, more desperate." I circle her, forcing her to turn and track my movement. "Your enemies won't fight fair. They'll use numbers, terrain, poison, whatever advantages they can find."

I feint left, drop low, and sweep her legs. She goes down hard, the breath knocked from her lungs, the dagger flying from her grip. Before she can recover, I'm straddling her with a practice blade at her throat.

"Dead," I announce.

She stares up at me, and for a moment the fear breaks through completely. "I don't know if I can do this," she whispers. "What if I'm not strong enough? What if I make a mistake and get us both killed?"

The vulnerability in her voice reminds me how young she really is. I help her to her feet, giving her a moment to catch her breath.

"Fear is good," I tell her. "It keeps you alive. But you can't let it paralyze you."

"Again," she says, retrieving the fallen dagger. The ravens caw their approval.

This time I attack without warning, testing her reflexes and defensive instincts. She manages to avoid the first strike, deflects the second, but leaves herself open for a third that would have opened her throat.

"Dead again."

"I'm starting to see the pattern," she says grimly.

We repeat the exercise a dozen times, with variations: attacks from behind, multiple opponents, fighting while injured. Each time ends with her theoretical death, but each attempt shows improvement. She's learning to think tactically, to use distance and positioning instead of relying on strength she doesn't possess.

By the end of an hour, sweat sticks her clothes to her skin and her breathing comes in ragged gasps. More importantly, the desperate bravado from earlier has been replaced by grim determination. She's beginning to understand the scope of what she's attempting.

The ravens have multiplied during our training, dozens now lining the walls like an audience at a performance.

"Enough weapons work for today," I announce. "You need time to think about what you've learned."

"I've learned that I'm going to get myself killed," she says, wiping sweat from her face with a shaking hand.

"You've learned that this is harder than you expected. That's the beginning of wisdom." I gesture toward the palace walls around us. "Real survival isn't about being the best fighter; it's about understanding how to read people and situations before violence becomes necessary. We need to discuss how you recognize genuine threats versus empty resentment."

She nods, the weight of her lifelong situation settling over her differently now. "It's one thing to live with people who dislike you. It's another to wonder if one of them might actually try to hurt you."

"Exactly. You've developed thick skin for hostile looks and muttered comments - that's served you well. But now you need to learn the difference between someone who grumbles about your family and someone who might act on their anger." My voice carries the weight of experience. "Most people who hate you will never do anything about it. But the few who might..."

"How do I tell the difference?"

"Behavior changes. Someone who's always been hostile but suddenly becomes overly friendly… that's worth watching. Someone who asks unusual questions about your schedule or routines. People who seem to be studying you rather than just resenting you." I gesture toward the palace walls around us. "The kitchen maid who gives you sour looks is probably harmless. The one who starts asking about your food preferences might not be."

Understanding dawns in her eyes, along with a different kind of fear. "So I need to learn to really see people, not just assume their loyalty."

"Exactly. Your first real assignment isn't combat training, it's developing the skill to read genuine sentiment versus polite performance. Understanding who might harbor real grievances and who's simply going through the motions of court life."

"And if I discover that someone truly hates me?" The question comes out smaller than she intended.

"Then you'll have valuable information about the real threats you face. Knowledge is always better than ignorance, even when it's painful." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "But remember - most people's feelings are more complicated than simple hatred or loyalty. Fear, self-interest, genuine affection, old grievances… they all mix together."

She swallows hard, beginning to understand the complexity of what she's trying to navigate. These aren't foreign enemies with clear motivations, these are people whose feelings toward her family are shaped by years of complicated history.

"How long before your betrothal ceremony?"

"Three weeks. Not long to develop these new skills."

"Time enough to learn the basics. We'll train every morning, combat skills and threat assessment both." I notice her exhaustion. "For now, rest. Think about what you've learned."

As we walk back toward the palace, I notice how she moves now; more aware of her surroundings, but also more uncertain about what those surroundings actually mean. She's beginning to understand that the political landscape is far more complex than she'd realized.

One of the ravens follows us, hopping from wall to wall with deliberate purpose.

I failed Everett, I think, remembering the old king. But perhaps I can still help his great-niece navigate waters that are deeper and more treacherous than either of us imagined.

The girl is learning to ask the right questions. Whether she'll like the answers she finds is another matter entirely.

"Tomorrow we begin building your skills properly," I tell her as we reach the palace steps. "Physical training at dawn, then lessons in reading people's true intentions. And Princess? Keep that poison safe. If Cordelia killed Willem to silence him, she might decide we're threats worth eliminating as well."

She nods, understanding the weight of what we're beginning. "I'll hide it well. Maybe... maybe I'll give it to someone in the resistance. For safekeeping."

The casual mention of the resistance makes me pause. "You have contacts?"

"A few leads, nothing solid yet. People who remember the old ways. People who want change but don't know how to achieve it. Hints from my mother’s journals." She looks back at the ravens still watching from the walls. "Like the birds. Waiting for something, though I'm not sure what."

We're not conspirators plotting revolution. We're two people trying to survive in a game whose rules keep changing, where threats might come from any direction.

Behind us, the practice yard stones bear new marks; scuffs and scratches from blades that found their targets. The beginning of fresh lessons written in steel and uncertainty.

The Empire thinks it has already won. Our own people might wish we were gone. We’re beginning to learn to navigate a world where danger might come from any direction.

As I watch her disappear into the palace, the ravens take flight in a great black cloud, circling once before dispersing across the city. An omen, perhaps, though of what I cannot say.