The sword left Ilyan’s hand with a clatter of steel on sand.
Kael had disarmed him for the third time in less than five minutes, each movement colder, cleaner, more precise. A twist, a pivot, a step inside the boy’s stance, and the prince’s weapon went flying like it never belonged there in the first place.
“You’re dead,” Kael said simply.
His voice was flat. Not cruel. Not mocking.
Just true.
Ilyan spit in the dirt, chest heaving. “You touched my sword wrong.”
Kael blinked. “Did I?”
“You twisted your wrist before I stepped.”
“You’re too slow to matter.”
Kael turned his back.
That was the mistake.
Ilyan lunged for the discarded blade, grit slipping under his boots. He swept it up in one motion and charged. Not clean. Not practiced. But angry.
Kael didn’t even flinch.
He turned and caught the blow mid-swing, arms locking, weight shifting. He stepped inside the prince’s guard and drove the hilt of his training blade into Ilyan’s stomach—once, hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.
The boy crumpled to one knee.
Kael pressed the edge of his wooden blade against Ilyan’s neck.
“You’re dead again,” he said.
Ilyan didn’t look up. “Only because you cheat.”
Kael’s lips twitched. Not a smile. Just tension. “Only because you think this is a game.”
Ilyan finally looked at him—eyes sharp beneath sweat-damp curls, mouth twitching with defiance.
“You stare at me too much for someone pretending you don’t want to be beneath me.”
Kael stepped back slowly, blade lowering.
“I don’t kneel for kings.”
“You’ll kneel for me.”
Kael turned. “Not in this life.”
But he didn’t leave.
Not far.
He walked to the edge of the yard, took a waterskin from the post, drank without looking back.
Ilyan followed.
Breathing hard.
Shirt sticking to his back, sweat darkening the linen. He stopped three steps behind Kael, close enough that the heat off his body brushed against the older man’s spine.
“Try again,” Ilyan said.
Kael wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why?”
“Because I’m not done fighting you.”
Kael turned. “Then fight like someone who wants to win.”
He struck first this time. No warning. Just steel flashing as he stepped into Ilyan’s space, blade up, driving the younger man back with every motion—hard, fast, close.
Ilyan gasped. Parried once. Twice.
The third blow knocked the sword from his hand again.
Kael didn’t stop.
He pinned him—body to body, back to the practice post, breath hot between them. His blade angled across Ilyan’s chest, holding him there with nothing but pressure and presence.
Ilyan’s chest rose and fell.
Kael didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
His body pressed too close to pretend it was just a lesson.
“You’re trembling,” Ilyan whispered.
Kael leaned in, voice like gravel.
“So are you.”
They stood locked like that—breath to breath, steel to skin, lust vibrating just beneath control.
Kael’s voice dropped.
“Next time you lift your sword, mean it. Or I’ll do worse than pin you.”
Ilyan’s smirk twisted, even as his thighs pressed closer.
“Promise?”
Kael shoved off him.
And left without looking back.
But his cock was half-hard in his trousers.
And he didn’t train with anyone else for the rest of the week.