Chapter 7: Dance Of Blades

Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~11 min read

Raven woke to someone standing at the foot of her bed.

Her hand had a blade pressed to the intruder’s throat before her eyes fully opened.

“Good reflexes,” Draven said calmly, completely unbothered by the knife at his jugular. “Though you should have gone for the heart. Fae can survive throat wounds longer than you’d expect.”

She pulled back the blade, sitting up. “Do you have any concept of personal boundaries?”

“Not particularly.” He was dressed for combat—black training leathers, hair tied back, no jewelry except those silver rings. “Get dressed. We’re going to the training yards.”

“It’s barely dawn.”

“Best time for training. Fewer people watching.” He moved toward her window, looking out at the perpetual twilight of the shadow gardens. “Besides, your poison attempt was embarrassingly inadequate. If you’re going to kill me, you need to be better.”

“I made a perfectly good poison.”

“Yes, and then didn’t use it, while someone else’s inferior poison nearly killed you.” He glanced back, one eyebrow raised. “If I’m going to be assassinated, I refuse to let it be done by someone with mediocre skills. It would be insulting.”

Raven threw her pillow at him.

He caught it without looking, shadows solidifying around his hand. “Five minutes. Training yard. Don’t make me drag you.”

He dissolved into shadows and disappeared, leaving her holding a blade and wondering if all fae princes were this insufferable or if she’d gotten especially unlucky.

The training yard was empty except for Vex, who sat in the observation area with a book and what looked like a cup of tea.

“Morning,” the spymaster called. “The prince has informed me I’m to observe your training and take notes on your technique. Apparently, he wants documentation of your progress.”

“He wants to track how I improve so he can better defend against my attacks,” Raven translated, stretching in the cool morning air.

“That too.” Vex smiled. “But I think he’s genuinely interested in your development. He’s always been a good teacher when he bothers to try.”

Draven emerged from the shadows at the center of the yard, holding two practice swords. “Raven. Come here.”

She approached warily. “What are we doing?”

“Sparring.” He tossed her one of the swords. She caught it smoothly—good weight, excellent balance. “You’re skilled with blades. Guild training is thorough if nothing else. But you fight like you’re trying to survive, not win.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Show me.” He took a ready stance, sword held loosely. “Try to kill me.”

Raven studied him for a moment—his stance, his balance, the way he held the weapon with five hundred years of practice. Then she moved.

Fast. Low strike aimed at his knee to off-balance him, flowing into an upward slash toward his ribs. The Guild had trained her to be efficient, to end fights quickly.

Draven blocked both strikes without moving his feet, then disarmed her with a twist of his wrist that sent her blade spinning away.

She rolled, came up with a throwing knife from her boot, launched it at his throat.

He dissolved into shadow. The knife passed through empty air.

“See?” His voice came from behind her. She spun, but he was already solid again, sword at her throat. “You’re fighting to survive. Fast, efficient, brutal. But predictable. Every move is about ending the threat quickly so you can escape.”

Raven knocked his blade aside with her forearm—thank you, reinforced bracers—and swept his legs. To her surprise, he went down, but turned the fall into a roll and came up smiling.

“Better. That showed aggression instead of just defense.” He tossed her sword back. “Again. And this time, fight like you’re trying to win, not trying to escape.”

They circled each other. Raven adjusted her grip, trying to understand what he meant. She’d always fought to survive because survival was the goal. Complete the contract, get out, live another day.

But winning? That implied dominance. Control. Taking the fight to the opponent instead of waiting for openings.

She attacked again, but this time she pressed forward instead of looking for escape routes. Struck high, then low, then high again, driving him back instead of circling for position.

Draven’s expression shifted from amused to focused. He blocked, parried, but had to actually move his feet this time.

“Yes,” he said, blade meeting hers with a sharp clash. “Like that. Make me defend. Take ground.”

They moved across the training yard in a deadly dance—blade meeting blade, footwork precise, both of them testing the other’s limits. Raven felt sweat building despite the cool air, felt her muscles warming to the fight.

And felt something else. Something sharp and dangerous that wasn’t quite fear, wasn’t quite excitement.

Draven fought with casual grace that came from centuries of practice, but he wasn’t holding back as much as she’d expected. When she overextended, his blade was there immediately, tapping her ribs—kill shot. When she dropped her guard for a fraction of a second, his practice sword touched her throat—kill shot.

“You’re fast,” he said as they reset. “Faster than most mortals. Guild enhancements?”

“Training,” she corrected, breathing hard. “Started when I was five. My body knows combat like it knows breathing.”

“Show me what you’d do if weapons failed.” He tossed his sword aside.

Raven dropped hers and moved before he could prepare—closed distance, aimed an elbow at his throat, knee toward his ribs. Hand-to-hand combat, Guild style. Brutal, efficient, designed to disable or kill.

He blocked the elbow, absorbed the knee strike against his forearm, and suddenly they were grappling. His hand caught her wrist, her other hand went for his throat, he twisted and she found herself flipped over his hip.

She should have hit the ground hard. Instead, shadows cushioned her fall.

“Unnecessary roughness,” she gasped.

“You were about to crush my windpipe. Seemed appropriately rough.” He offered a hand to help her up.

She took it—then pulled, trying to off-balance him and reverse their positions.

He laughed and went with the momentum, but shadows wrapped around her waist and lifted her before she could complete the throw. She ended up suspended in darkness, eye level with him, thoroughly caught.

“Clever,” he said, and his face was inches from hers. “Using my own courtesy against me. I like it.”

This close, she could see the details the portraits didn’t capture. The faint silver flecks in his violet eyes. The sharp line of his jaw. The way he smiled with one corner of his mouth slightly higher than the other.

He was beautiful in the way predators were beautiful. Dangerous. Mesmerizing.

“Put me down,” she said, voice steady despite her heart’s traitorous acceleration.

“As you wish.” The shadows lowered her gently to the ground and dispersed.

They stood there, breathing hard, both flushed from exertion. The yard was silent except for the sound of their breathing and the scratch of Vex’s pen taking notes.

“Your technique is excellent,” Draven said finally. “But you rely too much on speed and surprise. Against opponents who are stronger or faster—like fae—you need to be smarter.”

“I am smart.”

“You’re efficient. There’s a difference.” He retrieved the practice swords, handing hers back. “Efficiency is doing things right. Intelligence is doing the right things. You need to learn to read your opponent, anticipate their moves, turn their strengths into weaknesses.”

“And you’re going to teach me this.” Raven’s tone was skeptical. “Teach me how to kill you better.”

“Exactly.” He took his ready stance again. “Because if I don’t, you’ll die in some embarrassing way before the thirty days are up, and I’ll never forgive you for the disappointment.”

Despite herself, Raven smiled. “Can’t have that.”

“Absolutely not. Now, again. This time, pay attention to what I telegraph before I strike.”

They sparred for another hour. Draven called out every mistake—”You’re favoring your right side,” “That stance leaves your kidney exposed,” “Stop thinking three moves ahead and pay attention to the current exchange.” And slowly, gradually, Raven started to understand.

The Guild had trained her to be a weapon. Fast, deadly, efficient.

But Draven was teaching her to be a fighter. Someone who adapted, who read the battlefield, who turned every exchange into information.

“Better,” he said after she managed to land a hit—practice blade tapping his shoulder. “You’re learning. That only took you forty minutes instead of the hour I’d predicted.”

“I’m a fast learner.”

“You’re a competent learner who’s been trained well but never taught to think.” He lowered his sword. “The Guild made you into a tool. Beautiful, deadly, effective. But tools don’t improvise. They don’t adapt. They just execute the same motions until they break.”

The observation cut deeper than any blade. “I’m not broken.”

“Not yet.” His expression softened. “But you would be, eventually. The Guild would use you until you failed a contract, then discard you. That’s what they do.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve watched them for two centuries, Raven. I know exactly what they do.” He set his sword aside. “You’re good enough to survive here. Skilled enough to actually be a threat to me, if you learn to think instead of just react. Question is whether you want to learn.”

Raven thought about the seventeen dead assassins. All skilled. All trained. All killed by the man now offering to teach her.

“Why?” She needed to understand. “Why help me kill you? What do you gain?”

Draven was quiet for a long moment, looking out at the shadow gardens. “I told you. I’m tired of being alone. Tired of people who fear me or use me. You’re the first person in centuries who treats me like an obstacle to overcome instead of a monster to worship or avoid.”

“I am trying to kill you.”

“I know.” His smile was genuine, almost grateful. “It’s the most honest interaction I’ve had in my entire existence. So yes, I’ll help you. I’ll teach you everything I know about combat, about strategy, about thinking seven moves ahead. And when you finally attempt to kill me for real—with everything you’ve learned—I’ll know that I finally found someone worthy.”

“Worthy of killing you?”

“Worthy of trying.” He met her eyes. “Whether you succeed or not is less important than knowing I was challenged by someone magnificent. That my death—or your defeat—meant something beyond just another tally mark in an endless existence.”

Raven didn’t know what to say to that. The Guild had never taught her how to respond to lonely immortals who wanted to be murdered by someone worthy.

“Tomorrow,” Draven said. “Same time. We’ll work on reading body language and predicting attacks. You’ve got good instincts, but instincts can be trained into strategy.”

“Training my assassin.” Raven shook her head. “You really are insane.”

“Probably.” He started to walk away, then paused. “Oh, and Raven? Next time you attempt to kill me, try to avoid poison. You’re much better with blades. Play to your strengths.”

He dissolved into shadows, leaving her standing in the training yard with a practice sword and a head full of confused thoughts.

“That went well,” Vex called from his observation post. “He actually gave you advice on your next attempt. I think he likes you.”

“He’s helping me plan his own assassination.”

“Yes. That’s how you know he likes you.” Vex closed his book. “The last assassin who made it to training sessions, he spent three weeks teaching her shadow magic theory before she tried to kill him in his sleep. He was very disappointed by her lack of creativity.”

“What happened to her?”

“The crystal prison in the throne room. Fifty years and counting.” Vex stood, stretching. “Word of advice? If you’re going to betray him, do it directly. He respects honest attempts to kill him. It’s the deception and manipulation he can’t forgive.”

Raven looked at the practice sword in her hand, thinking about the woman frozen in crystal for trying to seduce and betray a lonely prince.

“I’m not here to seduce him. Just kill him.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive in the Shadow Court.” Vex smiled knowingly. “But you’ll figure that out soon enough. See you at tomorrow’s session?”

“Apparently.” Raven set the sword on the weapons rack. “Since my target is insisting on teaching me how to murder him properly.”

“Welcome to the Shadow Court,” Vex said cheerfully. “Where nothing makes sense and everyone’s trying to kill everyone, but politely.”

He left, and Raven stood alone in the training yard as the eternal twilight cast long shadows across the ground.

Twenty-eight days left.

And she’d just spent one of them learning combat technique from the man she was supposed to kill.

Her second attempt would need to be better. Smarter. More creative.

Maybe blades in the dark, like he’d suggested. Use her strengths.

Raven smiled, and it felt dangerous.

Training session was progress. Learning his patterns was progress. Every moment with him was information, and information was power.