Chapter 42: Chapter 42: Stress relief

The Shadows’ training hall sat deep beneath the palace, insulated from both weather and rumor. Stone walls drank sound. Ether wards hummed low and constant, a pressure more than a noise, calibrated to allow power without letting it spill. The floor bore the scars of repetition, scored lines, impact fractures, and the faint shimmer where ether had burned and been sealed again.

Gregoris Frasner moved through it like it belonged to him.

Charles von Jaunez did not.

Not yet.

“Again,” Gregoris said, calm and unyielding.

Charles wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist and reset his stance. Dark hair clung to his temples; his blue eyes were sharp with irritation and concentration in equal measure. He moved well, better than most who arrived here under coercion rather than ambition. Ether flared briefly around his hands as he shifted weight, then vanished as he chose the blade instead.

Good instincts. Still undisciplined.

They clashed. Steel rang. Charles drove forward with speed, then overcommitted, momentum betraying him. Gregoris caught the opening without looking like he had moved at all. A twist of the wrist, a step inside Charles’s guard, and the blade was gone. A controlled strike landed against Charles’s shoulder, hard enough to remind, not enough to injure.

“Dead,” Gregoris said mildly. “Again.”

Charles exhaled sharply, jaw tight, but nodded and stepped back. He was learning. Reluctantly. Efficiently.

That was when the door opened.

One of the Shadows crossed the threshold, posture tight, expression neutral. What he carried, however, was anything but.

A box. Pink.

Not the muted rose of ceremonial silk or the dignified blush of noble stationery. This was screaming pink edged in white ribbon. It looked violently out of place against the sea of dark tactical uniforms, ether harnesses, and scarred steel.

Charles stared at it.

Gregoris did not turn immediately.

“Yes?” he asked, still watching Charles reset his stance.

“It’s for you, Commander,” the Shadow said. There was the faintest pause. “From Lord Rosenroth.”

That got his attention.

Gregoris turned slowly, gaze dropping to the box. His expression did not change, but something in his posture did, an almost imperceptible stilling.

“Leave it,” he said.

The Shadow obeyed without comment, setting the box on the edge of a weapons table and withdrawing. The door sealed behind him with a muted thud.

Silence followed.

Charles looked between Gregoris and the box, brows knitting. “Is that…”

“You are not done with the training,” Gregoris said, eyes already back on him.

Charles let his head tip back for a second. “No, but I would rather die, honestly. Less work.” He lowered his chin again, squinting. “Also, you can’t kill me. Gabriel would be upset.”

Gregoris’s mouth twitched. Barely.

“Again,” he said.

They moved.

Charles fought harder this time, irritation lending him speed, stubbornness sharpening his strikes. He still lost. Less cleanly. Which was progress.

“Break,” Gregoris said eventually.

Charles bent, hands on his knees, breathing hard. His gaze slid back to the weapons table. “You’re not even curious?”

Gregoris crossed the hall and picked up the box.

He undid the ribbon with particular care and opened the lid.

Inside lay a folded note on thick, elegant paper.

He read it once.

Then again.

Thank you for the gift and the wishes.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t flatter me.

Beneath the note, nestled neatly inside, lay the collar.

Black composed material that Charles recognized, and he thanked gods that Rafael was smart enough to not try it. The silver stone at its center caught the light and gave it back cold and unyielding.

Charles straightened slowly. “Oh,” he said. Then, after a beat, “That’s vicious.”

Gregoris closed the box.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, quietly, with something like approval threaded through the irritation, he murmured, “Yes.”

He set the pink box aside among steel and shadow, its color no less jarring for the contrast.

“Well played, Lord Rosenroth,” he added under his breath.

Then he turned back to Charles, voice crisp once more.

“Again.”

Charles groaned. “Oh, come on, Gregoris, don’t take your frustration with Rafael out on me.”

Gregoris did not answer immediately.

He lifted his blade again, his posture settling into that deceptively relaxed stillness that meant the bout was about to become serious.

“Assume,” he said calmly, “that if I were taking my frustration out on you, this would already be over.”

Charles snorted and raised his weapon. “That’s not the reassurance you think it is.”

“It isn’t meant to be.”

They moved.

This time, Charles did not charge. He adjusted instantly, footwork precise, center low, blade angled to draw his opponent’s movements. Ether threaded faintly through his muscles in the way only disciplined fighters used it. He pressed forward with calculated aggression, forcing Gregoris to respond instead of dictate.

For several seconds, the hall filled with the sharp, controlled rhythm of impact.

Steel rang. Ether whispered.

Charles landed the first solid contact, a glancing cut along Gregoris’s forearm that would have drawn blood on anyone else.

Gregoris halted the exchange with a raised hand.

Charles stilled, chest rising and falling, eyes sharp rather than startled. “That one counted.”

“It did,” Gregoris agreed.

They resumed without ceremony.

Gregoris shifted gears.

It was subtle. He simply… stepped ahead of Charles’s intent. Each counter landed where Charles was about to be, not where he was. Each movement closed options before Charles could exploit them.

Charles adapted again, because that was what made him valuable. He changed tactics mid-exchange, switching from blade to body, using ether to reinforce joints, and turning momentum into leverage.

He still lost.

Not because he was outmatched.

Because Gregoris was operating on a level where mistakes were anticipated.

Gregoris disarmed him cleanly, pinned him with a knee and blade at his throat, and held there for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“Dead,” he said quietly.

Charles grinned up at him, breathless but satisfied. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Gregoris released him and stepped back.

Charles rose without assistance, rolling his shoulder. “So,” he said, nodding toward the pink box, “are you going to tell me why Lord Rosenroth just returned a collar like he was correcting homework?”

Gregoris crossed the hall and picked up the box again.

He opened it once more, eyes skimming the note with the same attention he gave battlefield reports.

“Because he understood the message,” Gregoris said.

“And didn’t like it.”

“And chose not to perform outrage,” Gregoris replied. “Which is why he’s still interesting.”

Charles blinked. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

He closed the box and set it aside among steel and shadow, the color still absurdly bright.

“Well played,” Gregoris murmured, almost fondly. “You didn’t run.”

Charles raised a brow. “And that’s good?”

“For him,” Gregoris said. “Necessary.”

He turned back to the floor and motioned Charles into position again.

“Again,” he said.

Charles took his stance without complaint this time, eyes bright, blade steady.

“Just so you know,” Charles said dryly, “if you escalate any further, I’m telling Gabriel you’re using me as stress relief.”

Gregoris’s mouth curved faintly.

“Then you’d better keep up,” he replied and stepped forward, faster than before.

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