CHAPTER 565: THE ROYAL PRINCESS (1)

Anastasia’s gaze never wavered as she took a step back, drawing a slender sword from her side. The weapon was light, almost delicate-looking, but Lyan knew better than to judge based on appearances. He had learned that much over the years.

The courtiers around them watched in stunned silence, their eyes wide as they saw the two of them—Lyan, the skilled swordsman who had earned his reputation in battle, and Anastasia, the princess, who few believed had ever picked up a weapon.

But what happened next took everyone by surprise.

With a sudden, fluid motion, Anastasia stepped forward, her sword flashing through the air like a streak of silver. Lyan barely had time to react, but he was fast, his body instinctively moving to block the strike. He met her blade with his own, and the sound of metal ringing against metal echoed through the hall.

She was fast—surprisingly fast. There was an elegance to her movements, but underneath that grace, there was power. Lyan could feel it in the way she moved—controlled, precise, and deliberate. Each strike was calculated, each step carefully executed. And as they continued to spar, Lyan began to notice something that sent a ripple of recognition through his mind. There was fire in her movements, a familiar kind of fire.

It wasn’t just a strength that came from technique—it was the kind of energy that Lyan recognized, that he knew he shared. It was like Erich, his old mercenary companion, whose fire magic had always made his strikes burn with an intensity few could match.

Anastasia’s movements were no different. Her sword swung with a fluidity that spoke not only of skill, but of a hidden well of power. The magic, though concealed, was there—Lyan could feel it, just as he had felt it in Erich all those years ago.

She was a warrior, not just a princess.

The fight continued, neither of them giving an inch. Lyan had no intention of holding back, and neither did she. Their blades clashed in the air with each passing moment, sparks flying as they collided. The speed, the fluidity, the grace—it was like watching two masters at work, their movements so in sync that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

It was clear now. Anastasia was not just the princess—she was a force to be reckoned with.

The exchange continued for several more minutes, each of them landing blows, testing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Lyan found himself impressed by her speed, the way she moved with such fluidity, and yet with a sharpness that demanded respect. She wasn’t a woman to be underestimated.

As the duel continued, Lyan’s mind raced. There was something familiar about this fight, something he hadn’t expected to encounter here, in the royal court. The fire magic, the precision, the agility—it was all too familiar. In that moment, he saw in her the same potential that he had once seen in Erich.

Anastasia was not just a princess, she was a fighter. And like him, she had a hidden strength that no one could see unless they were willing to look.

Finally, the duel reached a standstill. Both Lyan and Anastasia were breathless, their swords locked in a momentary standoff. They stood there, faces inches apart, their bodies pressed against each other from the force of the clash. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Anastasia’s lips curled into a small, wry smile. "You fight well, Lord Evocatore," she said, her voice a mix of respect and amusement.

"You too, Princess," Lyan replied, still catching his breath. He hadn’t expected her to be so formidable.

The tension between them didn’t dissipate entirely, but it shifted. There was a new understanding, an unspoken acknowledgment that they were both more than they appeared to be. Lyan realized that this encounter was not just about skill or strength. It was about power, politics, and the unyielding nature of trust.

But Anastasia wasn’t done yet. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her expression turning calculating. "I wonder, Lord Evocatore," she said, her voice a little colder now. "Are you truly here to help us, or are you simply another man with designs on power?"

Lyan felt the shift in her tone immediately, but he didn’t falter. "I am here for the people of Grafen, Princess. Nothing more, nothing less."

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, her sharp eyes studying him, as if trying to gauge the truth behind his words. Then, after a beat, she nodded, her lips curving into a smile once again, though this one was tinged with something more guarded. "You may be useful after all," she said, her tone lighter but still filled with a hint of amusement. "But remember, Lord Evocatore, power does not come easily. And neither does trust."

With that, she turned, her platinum blonde hair shimmering as she walked away, her figure disappearing into the shadows of the room.

Lyan stood there for a moment, still catching his breath, his mind racing. He had just sparred with a princess who was far more dangerous than anyone had let on. But the real question now was: What did she want?

_____

The air in the training hall remained thick with the remnants of their clash. Lyan stood across from Princess Anastasia, his chest heaving, his muscles taut from the exertion of the duel. Every breath he took seemed to carry the weight of the moment, each one weighed down by the realization that this wasn’t just another sparring match. This was a meeting of minds, a power play wrapped in steel and sweat, and both of them knew it.

Anastasia’s eyes—sharp, calculating—lingered on him, not with the admiration he had expected after their duel, but with something far more inscrutable. It was as if she had sized him up, cataloging every motion, every weakness, every strength, and then dismissed it as though it was nothing more than another tactical decision. She was not the kind of woman who would be swayed by charm or flattery. Her presence in the room, so poised, so deliberate, made it clear that she played this game of power with an elegance that could slice through anyone who underestimated her.

Lyan felt the hum of the challenge still buzzing in his chest, but he was careful not to let it show. He wasn’t sure what game she was playing, but he had a sinking feeling that she was already five steps ahead of him. The more he tried to focus, the more her gaze seemed to pull at the edges of his thoughts, like a magnet nudging at the steel of his own determination. It wasn’t fear. It was caution, an awareness that in this world of politics and power, even the smallest mistake could send a person tumbling into the unknown.

His thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of boots striking the stone floor—sharp, purposeful. Lyan’s eyes flicked toward the door, and there stood Surena, cutting through the air with the precision of a well-honed blade. She didn’t need to speak to command attention. Her presence was one that spoke volumes without a single word, and Lyan knew that when Surena entered a room, things were about to shift.

"I’m here to take you back to Grafen, Lord Evocatore," Surena’s voice rang out, low and firm. Her gaze flicked briefly to Anastasia, sharp as ever, before returning to Lyan. It wasn’t just a statement—it was a subtle command, an unspoken reminder that the game outside the training hall had its own rules. Surena’s eyes never lingered too long, always moving, always assessing, but Lyan felt the weight of her gaze like a steady hand on his shoulder.

But it wasn’t just Surena’s arrival that shifted the atmosphere. Wilhelmina, ever the voice of reason, stepped into the room with her arms crossed. Her expression was neutral, but Lyan could read the disapproval in her posture, the way her lips pressed together in a firm line. She had always been the pragmatic one—the one who understood the political currents swirling around them. And right now, the tension in the room was palpable enough that even Wilhelmina couldn’t mask her concern.

Lyan turned back to Anastasia, who stood there watching him, her sword still in hand, her breathing as controlled as his. Her gaze hadn’t softened. It remained sharp, as though she were still calculating something behind that delicate, porcelain mask of hers. He realized then that this had never been about winning a duel—it had been about testing him, seeing how he would react, and he had passed. But what did that mean? What was she truly testing for?

His lips parted, the words forming before he could stop them. "It seems my time is up for today, Princess." He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of both respect and acknowledgment. "But know this: I will not forget this meeting."

The words tasted strange on his tongue. What did it mean to not forget? Was this about power? About control? Or was it simply an acknowledgment that, like everyone else in this court, they were players in a game too big to ignore? His gaze met hers once more, this time with a quiet intensity that he hoped conveyed his thoughts, even if he didn’t fully understand them himself.

Anastasia’s smile, when it came, was slow and deliberate. It didn’t reach her eyes—those calculating eyes that had so carefully watched every move he made during their duel. There was a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps?—but it was gone before he could make sense of it. She lowered her sword with a graceful motion, the metal whispering through the air as she returned it to its sheath.

"Nor will I forget you, Lord Evocatore," she said, her voice soft but edged with an unmistakable sharpness. "We will meet again soon enough."