Cassian wiped the sweat off his brow as he stood in the training grounds, his muscles aching from hours of relentless drills. The week had passed in a blur, his daily regimen intensifying under the watchful eyes of his instructors. Now, with a real sword in hand, the weight of its steel felt oddly comforting. He had sparred with the other trainees, besting them with calculated precision. But something about today felt... wrong.
The air was thick with an unnatural stillness. The usual chatter of guards and servants in the courtyard had dwindled to whispers. His instincts prickled—a warning that he had learned to heed well in his past life.
Then it happened.
A flicker of movement. A shadow lunging from the corner of his vision.
Cassian barely had time to turn before the first blow came, a sword slashing toward his exposed side. He twisted, instinct and training guiding him, his blade barely deflecting the attack in time. His eyes locked onto the assailant—a guard clad in the livery of House Meleros. The realization hit him like a hammer.
Betrayal.
More figures moved. Two, no—three other guards advanced, their expressions cold and resolute.
His mind raced. There was no hesitation in their movements. They were here to kill him.
Cassian didn't have time to think further. He sidestepped the next attack, steel ringing against steel as he parried. His heart pounded, not from fear, but from the sheer rush of battle. These were trained soldiers, men who had likely fought in real skirmishes before. He was still young, still learning—but he had no choice but to fight.
A second guard lunged from behind. Cassian barely ducked in time, rolling across the dirt, feeling the wind of the missed strike brush his back. He came up on his feet, sword raised defensively. He needed space. He needed a way out—
Then a sharp whistle pierced the air.
Before the assassins could press their advantage, a group of cloaked figures emerged from the shadows, moving with deadly precision. Cassian barely had time to register their arrival before the first of his attackers collapsed, a dagger embedded in his throat. Another fell with a strangled gasp, a crossbow bolt lodged between his ribs.
His mother's guards.
They moved like wraiths, cutting through the assassins with practiced efficiency. Within moments, the remaining traitors were either dead or writhing on the ground, gasping for their last breaths.
Cassian exhaled sharply, lowering his blade. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He turned to face the leader of the cloaked figures, a man with sharp eyes and a scar running down his cheek.
"You are unharmed, my lord?" the man asked, his voice steady despite the carnage around them.
Cassian clenched his jaw and nodded. "Thanks to you."
His gaze shifted to the fallen assassins, his mind already calculating the next move. This was no random attack. Someone had ordered his death.
And he had a very good idea who that someone was.