They always looked at me like I was volatile. Like at any moment I would turn on them and ignite. No matter how closely I stuck to the shadows, their eyes sought me out and followed my every move. Over the last two years the stares changed. They softened from fear, and into something else. Not quite trust, that was something I don’t think they owed me. Curiosity maybe. Or wariness. Like they could never decide whether I was still dangerous or just strange.

I didn’t blame them for thinking like that.

Some days, I wasn’t sure either.

The others didn’t talk about what it meant to be born wrong. I could pretend to dress like a fellow knight, eat like one, and do the work I was asked to do like them, but my body remembers. It knows what it is. It curdles inside me like a wound that never closed. It’s always at the back of my mind, reminding me that just as legends described, I am the ash in the air. The fire in the sky. Ruin waiting to happen.

Wilder used to tell me that it would get easier. Like if I took a deep breath and let the world in, that it would stop seeing me as a threat. But that was the difference between him and me. He believed these hands of mine could heal too.

Back when we first got here, we would sit in the silence of the barracks. He would sit on my bed with me for a few precious minutes, shoulder pressed against mine. And for a few precious minutes I would get to pretend. Fool myself into believing that someone in the world knew me and didn’t flinch. That I was safe. He understood me and wanted more for me. 

But as he continued to climb his way towards a future he wanted, I was okay to stand back and watch his shine.

 However, there was a problem. There was someone else. With a golden mess of hair, shining blue eyes, and a smile that captivated. He was always training like he was running out of time; cheeks flushed from the thrill of a challenge. He was an agile vampire that moved like the world belonged to him. Clay Dashkov.

Even now, in the early foggy morning of the day, he was outside with Ezra, perfecting a new form. His expression set as he squared up, fists tight and protecting his body. It was a rare sight to see him so serious and focused. 

I shouldn’t watch him like I do.

I could read him almost well as I did Wilder. The narrow of his eyes, the fall of his shoulders when he made a mistake. And I knew the scar on his forearm from a major injury he suffered last year from a blade that could have ended his life.

Then it healed, and he was smiling again like he almost didn’t die. But that’s who he was, he bounced back every time. He was going to make the perfect King of Darsineka one day. He was like moonlight in this bleak world. Cool, constant, and impossible to ignore. He kept us smiling with him. 

And most of all, he didn’t stare at me like the others did. He looked at me like I was something more. 

It unraveled me in ways I didn’t have words for.

-

The announcer stepped forward, megaphone in one hand, the other a list of randomized pairs for a sparring session. My name echoed out at me. Wilder clapped a firm hand on my back as I got up. “Go easy on him,” a simple teasing encouragement.

I crossed the area, taking the staff offered to me. My grip was instinctive, despite it not being my preferred weapon of choice. I turned to see who my opponent was and found him. Clay stood with his hands folded neatly atop his staff, waiting with an eager smirk. His blonde hair was tousled from training, his eyes like little sapphires as they sparkled with promise.

Of course it had to be him.

I stood just a few feet away, planting my staff into the dirt. I looked him up and down. The looseness of his stance, to the curve of his mouth. He didn’t flinch anymore at the idea of fighting me. But I briefly remembered the tremble of his hands, and his unsure resolve back when we first met. Now he grinned, daring me to make the first move. I wasn’t sure when he had changed, but it was a little endearing.

The buzzer rang.

Clay twirled his staff with flair. His smirk turned into a full-blown grin like this was a game to him. Showboating for the crowd.

I raised a brow but brought my staff up to signal I was ready. He wanted me to start, but I wouldn’t. There was power in silence. In the art of restraint. I knew what I was capable of. What these people would never understand was how much I held back.

We only had minutes, and if I wasn’t going first, he needed to. Clay knew this and lunged. His staff arced fast, aiming for my ribs. I sidestepped and driving the butt of mine hard into his side. I heard the puff of air that he released. For a split second I worried I hit too hard, but then he laughed.

His biggest weakness wasn’t physical. It was that he never took me seriously enough. He recovered fast, using our closeness to his advantage, he began to unleash a flurry of strikes. He may be faster and more precise than me, but I had weight. Experience. And maybe something a little darker.

I parried. Blocked.

Let him dance with me.

Think that we were evenly matched. That maybe he had me right where he wanted me.

He raised his staff over his head, trying for a big finale.

That was his mistake.

I swept low, right for the back of his knees. Instantly crumpling him.

He reached for balance, eyes going wide. With a sharp hit, I got his chest, sending him sprawling with a heavy groan. His staff clattering just out of his reach.

With satisfaction I stepped forward, planting the butt of my staff into his chest, pinning him. The crowd erupted into cheers, but in that moment it felt far.

Clay looked up at me, I could feel his heavy breath. He looked stunned, captivated even. Then that damn smile was back. Unshaken and alive.

“You’ve gotten better.” He panted. “Maybe we should team up. Mister stick-up-his-ass.”

I blinked, lifting my staff. “Stick up my ass? That’s a new one.” Without thinking I reached out and helped him up. “If you’ve forgotten my name, all you had to do was ask instead of an insult. I would have reminded you.”

This earned a laugh. He dusted his hands off on his track pants. “Oh, believe me, I know your name. I just felt like giving you a fitting nickname. You don’t talk or smile… Like ever. Figured it’s time to try and break through and give you a fitting nickname.”

"Hilarious.” I murmured dryly.

He shrugged, dripping to grab his staff off the ground before walking towards the exit. “I try. It’s a good thing Wilder balances out that personality of yours. You could learn a thing or two from him. He’s approachable.” His eyes flicked back at me as I followed him. “You? Not so much.”

"Being friendly with you all doesn’t benefit me. I didn’t come here to make friends.”

Clay twirled his staff once before handing it back to one of the workers of this event. “See, that is where you’re wrong. You’d be surprised at how far you’d get if you just let people in.” He turned, his voice softer now, less teasing, and more kind. “You’re strong Wren. You’re easy Kings guard material if you wanted it. I’ve been talking with my grandfather, and you are phenomenal. You don’t have to stand in Wilders’ shadow forever. You can be so much more than that if-” he hesitated. 

I shoved my staff at the worker, storming past Clay, his feet pattering after me. He reached out, trying to grab my arm.

“I will do whatever is needed of me,” I turned and told him flatly. His expression stunned. “But I don’t need a title to do that. I already have everything I need at Wilders’ side. I’m a tool to be used however you see fit, I already told you and King Dashkov that. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Clay’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his brows furrowing. But he didn’t say anything.