The voices were difficult to hear, but I could hear them yelling and approaching, clearly intending to surround the carriage. I pressed my fingers to the wood of the window frame, tilting my head just enough to catch a glimpse through the glass. Four men, decently armed for bandits, moved through the thinning mist of the morning with the sloppy confidence of men who thought they’d already won. They wore scavenged armor and mismatched leathers, blades drawn and faces smirking beneath grime and beard. One of them was laughing as he pointed toward Caspian, who stood motionless at the edge of the carriage path, his long coat barely stirring in the mountain breeze.

  “Look at this one,” the man barked, nudging another with the hilt of his sword. “Fancy boots, quiet little mouth—bet he’s the bodyguard. Or maybe a tutor. Think he’ll cry when we take the boy?”

  “Who cares?” the tallest of them said, already raising his crossbow. “Roxarry’s on this road. That’s where the highbloods send their little eggs to learn how to fight. We bag a few richlings, sell 'em back to their families, and we’re eating like lords all winter.”

  Caspian said nothing, but I could barely contain my amusement. I didn’t doubt that life in the mountains was difficult, but their plan reeked of both desperation and idiocy. If they were truly familiar with the path to Roxarry and what the Academy was, they would understand that most of the children they wanted to kidnap were more than capable of defending themselves. However, they seemed under the impression that it was simply a school for nobles rather than for those with a high affinity for magic.

  Another one took a step forward, his grin spreading as he pointed at the crest on the side of the carriage. “Looks like this one’s from Naera. Hell, we might’ve already caught an heir. We’ll be legends after this, boys.”

  As if. They didn’t even know who they were speaking about, much less who they were speaking to and I leaned forward, interested to see Caspian use his Draconid abilities. For his part, Caspian hadn’t moved and his posture remained infuriatingly relaxed, one hand still resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His eyes took in the scene with the same detached calm that he always did, and it was almost disappointing how little tension there was in him.

  A bolt was fired, and I jumped as it embedded into the stone across from Caspian. I didn’t even see Caspian draw, but he now held his sword in his hand, the bandits just as startled as me. Before I could lean back in, Caspian moved and what followed didn’t even look like a fight.

  Caspian stepped forward, smooth as breath, and the first man didn’t even have time to correct his stance. His crossbow lowered in confusion as if some part of him thought they might still speak, still bargain but his hand was gone before that thought could fully form. It hit the ground with the weapon still gripped in its curled fingers, a grotesque mimicry of tension. He opened his mouth to scream but didn’t manage it; Caspian pivoted without pause, his blade already arcing into the next motion, a clean diagonal that caught the second man in the throat with such precision that it looked almost staged. For a moment, the man just stood there, sword halfway out of its scabbard, then blood surged out in a pulsing arc that sprayed across the snow-packed dirt and steamed like breath in the cold air.

  The third came in harder, maybe thinking that speed would bridge the gap between instinct and experience. He shouted something guttural and raised his axe high above his head, hands wide like he was used to splitting firewood, not skulls. It was easy to see how he thought momentum might win, how he’d seen fights end when one man got lucky or fast enough or simply mad enough to overpower the moment. But Caspian didn’t meet the strike. He shifted sideways as the axe came down, a pivot so fluid it might have been water breaking around stone. The blade missed by inches, thudding uselessly into the frozen ground.

  Caspian didn’t let the man recover. His sword came up in a short, brutal thrust that punched through the man’s side with the muted sound of steel through wet cloth and muscle. The bandit let out a noise that wasn’t quite a scream, more a broken gasp as his knees buckled. Caspian’s wrist twisted once, and when the blade came free, it dragged a thread of crimson with it, steaming in the frigid air. The man dropped without ceremony and Caspian quickly finished off the first man who had been staring at his stumps in disbelief.

  “Damn Naeran!” the fourth yelled, barely managing to block Caspian’s strike with his own blade. It was clear he was the only reason the other three were even armed, and he moved like someone who’d seen real combat. His stance was tighter, his grip practiced and I suspected he might have been a soldier once—exiled, maybe, or deserted. But Caspian didn’t flinch; he didn’t even blink when the man came at him with a roar that echoed through the pass.

  Their swords clashed once, a sharp metal ring that cut through the stillness like a signal, a single note of tension finally sung aloud after all that silence. And then they were in it, both of them moving with a tightness and clarity that the others had lacked entirely. The fourth man’s stance was close to flawless; knees bent just enough for control, arms loose but not lazy, blade held at an angle that allowed for both block and follow-through. He didn’t waste movement and he didn’t panic, making it obvious he was more used to combat than his conspirators had been.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Caspian was faster; not in speed alone, but in thought, in the way his body reacted without needing commands. He slipped beneath the man’s guard with the grace of someone who had been raised to understand combat as a language, not a skill, not a job. His parry was clean, redirecting the man’s blade with a sharp twist that opened a half-beat window. He stepped inside that opening with no wasted motion, and the heel of his boot slammed hard into the side of the man’s knee. The joint bent wrong with a sickening crunch, and the man went down hard, a shout of pain tearing from his throat as he tried to brace with one arm, the sword faltering just a little.

  Caspian’s blade came down with a finality that didn’t leave room for any other outcome, a single, downward arc that split through flesh and bone in one fluid strike. The man’s body jerked once, and then stilled.

  Silence followed.

  The guards who were stationed at a respectful distance in front and behind the carriage, had never even unsheathed their weapons. I realized that they had never intended to; they knew they were not needed. Caspian straightened slowly, flicked the blood from his blade with a practiced motion, and turned his back on the corpses. There was not a drop of blood on him and I watched with reluctant respect as he rejoined me. I had wanted to see how Caspian used his abilities to fight, but he hadn’t needed too. He had erased four men alone without even trying and as soon as he sat down, the carriage began to move again like it had never stopped.

  Caspian took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if centering himself, though his expression never shifted from its usual calm. There was no gloating, no grim satisfaction, not even the cold fury I had come to associate with vengeance. He’d killed four men, men who were planning to sell children for ransom, and he looked no more disturbed than if he’d stepped around a puddle in the street.

  “You didn’t let me help,” I said after a moment, watching as he opened his eyes to look at me. It was then I noticed the hint of blue, proving the fight had riled him up more than he was letting on.

  “You didn’t need to.” Caspian agreed, adjusting the collar of his coat. “You do need to conserve your energy. Your entrance exam at Roxarry is in three days. It’s not worth letting you waste energy on vermin along the path.”

  I stared at him, unable to come up with a reply that didn’t sound childish. It was insulting and yet it wasn’t, but I couldn’t decide if I was angry or impressed. Caspian wasn’t trying to belittle me; if anything, his words were practical, dismissive only in the way one might swat away a fly. The bandits hadn’t been a threat to him or me and he had decided they were simply a stain to be washed away. No more, and no less.

  There was something in his calm I craved. Not peace but the kind of stillness that came from knowing nothing could touch you. Not fear. Not regret. Not even the ghosts of what you’d done.

  “What are you expecting from me?” I asked, a bit quieter than I meant to. The words came out before I could stop them, half-formed and strangely uncertain in my throat. Caspian didn’t answer right away. He turned his gaze toward the window again, as if measuring the shape of the morning light on the cliffs beyond, the sharp slant of it stretching long across the rock.

  “For you to honor the effort my mother and I put into training you.” Caspian’s eyes met mine again, and this time, they stayed there. If I was a betting man, I would have said there was something close to pride in his expression.

  “I expect you to win.”

  ***

  Caspian watched as Cyran took in his words before glancing away. It was plain to see that he was upset Caspian hadn't needed to use any of his draconic abilities but it was also clear he admired him for it.

  Admiration. Caspian sat with the concept quietly as the carriage rolled along. His reasons for helping Cyran had always been simple: the boy was an exception and a loose cannon who needed guidance, and he was in a place to give it. Cyran had never wanted someone to replace his father and Caspian never wanted the position.

  Yet, he couldn't deny he enjoyed seeing Cyran grow over the past three years. The boy absorbed knowledge like an empty lake collected water, and he was always hungry and eager for more. Caspian had trained grown men since marrying Isadora and never met someone who learned as quickly and masterfully as Cyran did. However, all that ability was being focused on an unhealthy obsession with his mother and despite his promise, Caspian had told both Linota and Isadora about the risk Cyran had taken to get the blood. Luckily, the women agreed he needed to be separated from her completely if Cyran was going to have any chance of maturing. After all,

  Caspian was well aware of how obsession could destroy a Draconid.

  Caspian sighed, closing his eyes again, willing his magic to calm down. Truthfully, this was more than he ever wanted to deal with, but there wasn't much he wouldn't do to make Isadora’s life a little easier. He had been lucky to be forced into a marriage with someone who would become his best friend, and he enjoyed the freedom that gave both of them to exist without questions.

  Even if it meant babysitting a volatile lake.

  ***