Of Blades And Blossoms

Izana penned letters to the main houses—concise and elegant. He summoned his attendant to dispatch them at once.

By dinnertime, most of his tasks were done. After changing into fresh attire, he made his way to the training grounds.

Julian was already there, blade in hand. His brown hair was tied back with delicate purple cords, a flash of color against the fading light. His hazel eyes gleamed with confidence, every movement marked by practiced grace.

Izana stood silently at the edge of the training ground, watching Julian finish his routine with calm attentiveness.

“How about a match?” he asked once Julian had sheathed his blade.

Julian brushed a stray strand of hair from his brow. “Sure—warm up first.”

Izana nodded, stepping aside to stretch. His movements were measured, precise—like everything he did. Once ready, he picked up a wooden practice sword from the rack and took his place across from Julian.

They faced each other, eyes locked. A brief pause. A breath held.

Then—they moved.

Blades clashed in a flurry of motion. Strike, parry, retreat. One dodged, the other advanced. Their movements were fluid, a seamless exchange of speed and control, as if they’d done this a hundred times before.

They practiced long after the sun began its descent, its fading light brushing the sky with hues of vermillion and blush. Their swords met again and again in a rhythmic dance—until, at last, the clang of wood fell silent. Breathless and flushed with sweat, they returned their practice blades to the stand. A soft smile played on both their lips—shared satisfaction, perhaps, or quiet understanding. They sat on a bench tucked into the far corner of the grounds. The air was still, tinted gold by the dying light. For a while, neither spoke. Only the sound of their steady breathing lingered.

Then Julian broke the silence. "Are you sure about this?"

"It would benefit us, Julian."

"It could also lead to disaster."

Izana's voice dropped to a murmur. "The princess seems a good ally."

Julian looked at him—really looked. For a moment, his gaze was unguarded, almost tender.

"She's not the sole voice of her empire," he said softly. Then, after a pause, "She looks at you differently."

Izana blinked. "Differently?"

Julian exhaled, a quiet sigh. "Like she’s been looking for you all along."

“And what about me?” Izana asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. “How do I look at her?”

Julian didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the fading sky before turning to his brother.

“Like you’re afraid you’ll lose her at any moment,” he said quietly.

Silence settled again—deeper this time.

"I know I'll lose her," Izana murmured, his voice barely carrying as he rose to his feet and turned away.

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Julian watched him go, then called out gently, "You're not alone, Izana."

Izana paused mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder. His expression softened. "Neither are you," he said with a small smile.

Julian returned it—quiet, steady. No more words were needed.

***

The next day, Nyra felt unusually light—perhaps it was the anticipation of visiting Emberstone Market, or perhaps, more truthfully, it was the thought of walking its winding streets beside Izana.

She spent the morning tucked away in the royal library, a sunlit sanctuary of stained glass and quiet alcoves. Volumes on Aurelion culture lay open before her, pages filled with customs, histories, and poetic fragments. There was a graceful rhythm to the empire’s legacy—one built not just on power, but artistry.

Jade kept her company for a while, flitting in and out with his usual charm, before excusing himself with vague mischief in his smile. She watched him leave, half-curious, half-amused.

But as the hours passed, a quieter question settled in her chest.

Why had no woman from the extended royal family come to greet her? No distant cousin, no aunt, no matron of courtly circles. It was strange—almost pointed. The palace, for all its warmth, held shadows she couldn’t yet read.

She was still mulling it over when Jade entered the library, his presence lighting the solemn sanctuary with a familiar spark of mischief.

“Princess Nyra,” he called gently, earning a withering glare from the royal librarian. Jade, unbothered, responded with a soft smile and an apologetic glance before striding over to her.

“You have a visitor,” he announced.

“A visitor?” Her brows drew together slightly, blue eyes laced with confusion.

“Yes. Grand Princess Lysandra, Lady Commander Seraphine, and Princess Jasmine.”

Nyra immediately straightened in her seat. “They… want to see me?”

Jade blinked, clearly amused. “Of course they do, Princess. That shouldn’t surprise you—it’s only my aunt and her two charming daughters.”

Just moments ago, she’d been wondering about the conspicuous absence of the royal women—and now, as if summoned by her thoughts, they had appeared. She was calm on the outside, but internally, a soft wave of panic bloomed.

She rose to her feet a bit too quickly, hastily smoothing down her attire. Jade watched her with barely concealed amusement, a grin tugging at his lips.

“They’re not scary,” he whispered, as though offering a vital piece of intelligence.

“Alright. Lead the way,” she murmured, steeling herself.

Her heart thudded quietly as they neared the hall. The maids bowed and opened the doors, revealing a spacious, sunlit chamber. The soft glow of the evening spilled through wide windows, bathing the room in warmth. The walls were painted a cool mint hue, and the furniture—delicately carved wood—was upholstered in white and blush-pink silks and velvets. Tall vases overflowed with pink and white carnations, arranged with meticulous care.

At the head of the room sat Grand Princess Lysandra, regal and composed. Her azure satin gown flowed like water around her, and her hazel eyes watched Nyra with quiet scrutiny. Her dark brown hair was arranged in an elegant crown bun, not a strand out of place.

By the window stood Lady Commander Seraphine. She half-turned at the sound of the doors opening. Her ensemble—a seamless blend of a gown and military regalia in deep maroon—accentuated her commanding presence. Hazel eyes sharp and unreadable, she carried herself with an air of quiet authority that made her look both formidable and poised.

And then there was Princess Jasmine, seated with a porcelain teacup in hand. She regarded Nyra with calm interest, her lavender gown embroidered with intricate patterns along the hem. Jewelry—tasteful yet unmistakably fine—glinted at her ears and throat. Her auburn curls fell in soft waves around her face, and her hazel, doe-like eyes were steady on Nyra, unreadable but not unkind.

Nyra bowed with measured grace before the Grand Princess. Meanwhile, Jade strolled in with his usual air of mischief, a bright grin lighting up his face. He approached the Grand Princess and, with dramatic flair, pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “I missed you, Aunt,” he sighed theatrically, eyes gleaming with affection. Grand Princess Lysandra gave him a dry look and gently swatted him aside with a flick of her hand, though the faint upward curve of her lips betrayed her fondness. “Welcome, Princess Nyra,” she said, her voice smooth and dignified. “Please, have a seat.”