Chapter 383: Teacher pt 2

“You’re a terrible teacher,” Eris stated, her voice as dry as the permafrost under her boots.

Soren let out a sound of genuine offense, his hand dropping from her shoulder as if he’d been burned. “What? You just hit the perfect center! The arrow is practically vibrating with the precision of my tutelage!”

“I hit the center despite you, not because of you,” Eris countered, turning to face him. She adjusted the leather bracer on her forearm, her movements crisp and dismissive. “Your ’instruction’ was little more than you groping me with words, Soren. It was distracting at best and a liability at worst.”

Soren’s eyes widened, his blue irises shimmering with indignant light. “I was being professional! Archery is a full-body discipline. If the alignment is off by a hair’s breadth, the shot is wasted.”

“You were breathing in my ear like a creep,” she said, her deadpan delivery acting like a bucket of ice water over his ego.

“That was instructional breathing!” Soren squawked, his voice jumping an octave in a way that would have horrified his imperial ancestors. He stood taller, trying to regain his regal bearing while looking suspiciously like a flustered teenager. “In the North, we teach the rhythm of the lungs to stabilize the heart rate. I was simply… synchronizing our vitals.”

Eris stared at him, her expression a mask of stony unimpressedness. “Instructional breathing. Really. That is the terminology we are going with?”

“Yes!”

“Your stance correction took three times longer than necessary,” she continued, checking off his sins on her gloved fingers. “I have legs, Soren; I am generally aware of where they are. I didn’t need your hands lingering on my hips for forty-five seconds to explain the complex concept of ’width.’ And your grip adjustment? That was just a blatant, poorly veiled excuse to hold my hand.”

Soren’s mouth opened and closed, his brain clearly scrambling for a rebuttal that didn’t sound like a confession. “I was ensuring you didn’t torque the riser! If you torque the riser, the arrow veers left!”

“And that thing you did with your voice,” Eris added, leaning in slightly. “That low, gravelly rumble you only use when you’re trying to be particularly devastating. You sound like a tectonic plate with an agenda.”

A slow, cocky grin finally broke through Soren’s façade of innocence. “You noticed the voice thing?”

“Everyone within a hundred yards noticed the voice thing, Soren. I saw Ryse physically cringe behind a tree, and Jorel looked like he wanted to hurl himself into the frozen river just to escape the secondhand embarrassment.”

In the distance, near the camp perimeter, a muffled snort of laughter echoed through the pines. Thyren was currently doubled over, his forehead pressed against a rock as he tried to stifle his hysterics, while Ryse stared at the steel-grey sky with the weary expression of a man who had seen too many emperors fall victim to the ’voice thing.’

To prove her point, Eris didn’t wait for him to respond. She turned back to the target, nocked an arrow with a sharp, fluid motion, and drew the string. She didn’t widen her stance until it was a “mountain foundation,” but she did adjust it just enough. She didn’t hold the bow like a “lover,” but her grip was steady and relaxed.

Thrum. The arrow buried itself in the eighty-yard target. She moved with a sudden, sharp efficiency, nocking another.

Thrum.

Ninety yards. Dead center.

She reached for a third, her focus narrowing until the world was nothing but the charcoal mark on the frost-blackened pine. She exhaled—normally, not “instructionally”—and released.

Thrum. The hundred-yard mark split down the middle.

Soren watched her, his irritation melting into a look of pure, unadulterated pride. He looked like he wanted to cheer, but given that she had just spent five minutes roasting his dignity into a charred remains, he settled for a smug lean against a nearby rock. “Told you I’m a good teacher.”

Eris lowered the bow, her breathing steady. She didn’t look back at him, but she couldn’t hide the slight tilt of her head that conceded a point. “You’re… adequate.”

“I’ll take it,” Soren laughed. “Coming from you, ’adequate’ is practically a marriage proposal.”

He started toward her, likely intending to reclaim the bow or perhaps try his luck with a victory hug, but Eris held up a hand.

“But don’t think this means you’re joining the hunt tomorrow,” he said, his voice dropping into a serious, non-teasing tone.

Eris stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not allowed to hunt, Eris. It’s too dangerous.” Soren’s eyes scanned the dark tree line as if a Stryvaal was already lunging for her. “Between the terrain, the predators, and the fact that we’re heading into deeper territory… I won’t have you put yourself in danger. If something happens to you, it’s a diplomatic disaster.”

“A diplomatic disaster?” Eris echoed, her voice rising with an incredulous edge. “You think I’m worried about a treaty? I just showed you I can hit a target at a hundred yards while you’re literally vibrating with ’instructional’ nonsense.”

“Hitting a charcoal mark is one thing,” Soren countered, his jaw setting. “Facing a charging Snowback or a Drogar bear is another.”

Eris took a step toward him, her fire magic flaring just enough to melt the frost on his cloak. She looked up at him with a searing, playful intensity that made his breath hitch. “You’re not allowed to show me up, Soren. That’s the real reason, isn’t it?”

Soren let out a bark of laughter, his eyes dancing despite his attempt at sternness. “You think you could?”

Eris didn’t even pause. She leaned in, her eyes locking onto his with a challenge that was part threat and part promise. “I know I could. And that’s what actually scares you.”

She turned on her heel and walked away toward the camp, leaving the Emperor of the North standing alone in the clearing, clutching his bow and looking utterly stunned by the woman who was currently dismantling his ego one arrow at a time.

The evening meal was a boisterous affair of roasted venison and heavy bread, the warmth of Eris’s fire magic keeping the brutal mountain chill at bay. The men were in high spirits, the success of the hunt providing a buffer against the eerie silence of the deep woods.

As the fires began to burn low and the guards prepared for the first watch, Soren stood, clearing his throat to command the camp’s attention. “The Empress and I will be using the hot spring,” he announced, his voice regaining its imperial weight. “Maintain a discreet distance. Ryse, you have the watch.”

The officers nodded with practiced neutrality. It was expected; the Emperor and his new wife deserved a moment of respite after a day of travel and blood. The guards began to shift their perimeter, ensuring the steaming pool tucked behind the rock formations would remain private.

Soren turned to Eris, his expression softening into something hopeful. He was already imagining the steam, the quiet, and perhaps a more successful application of his “voice thing.”

“I’ll go first,” Eris declared, her voice ringing clear over the crackle of the embers.

Soren blinked, the gears in his head grinding to a halt. “…What?”

“I’ll bathe first,” Eris repeated, her tone as matter-of-fact as if she were discussing troop movements. “Alone. You can go after me when I’m finished.”

Soren’s brain short-circuited. The romantic, steamy vision he’d been carefully constructing for the last hour shattered into a million frosty shards. He looked at her, his eyes wide with a level of betrayal usually reserved for high treason.

“Alone?” he echoed, the word sounding foreign in his mouth.

“Alone,” she confirmed. “I want to soak without someone trying to teach me the ’imperial method’ of using soap.”

Soren’s composure didn’t just crack; it suffered a structural collapse. He followed her as she began walking toward the rock formation, his steps frantic.

“Why do you hate me?”

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