23 Specters and Speculations (1/2)

Lothar.

The name was known to Leal: it belonged to the elder son and heir of the Arnican general whose family traditionally ruled one of the Queendom's strongholds to the west – a domain that bordered Lys, in other words.

The man was a famous prodigy with the sword. He was recruited directly into Prince Dieter's service as soon as he came of age; recently, he'd been made a Sergeant.

According to his father, when both the official and the spy-borne news of the events in the Arnica-Askari border reached Lys mere hours after they took place, the list of casualties contained the same names.

King Madelon knew of Leal's private admiration for the genius swordsman of Arnica. He also knew of his one-sided rivalry with the man, who was only two or three years older than he was. Thus, he had told his son of Lothar's death in the course of performing his duty as an elite Royal Guard.

'But his Prince died anyway,' Leal had thought bitterly then.

The way this man called Lothar had been painted by the rumors, as he and the Lysean prince were both growing up on opposite sides of a hotly contested border, the latter had grudgingly come to think the former was invincible.

To be killed during the first real challenge he faced – what a bad jest. It made a mockery of all the years Leal spent envying and respecting him in equal measures. For what had he been working so hard for, practicing his swordplay, willing all his skills to improve as quickly as they could, if not for the chance to face Lothar of Arnica one day?

Whether it was to be on a sparring yard or on a field of battle, it mattered little. Leal's entire motivation was the image of him prevailing over this other man, who seemed to have been gifted at the cradle with every martial blessing possible.

And, it seemed, with the deepest regard of a certain princess.

”He's dead,” Leal found himself saying.

He did not mean for the words to sound as cruel as they did, truly.

But his father's reports did not lie. Leal had come to accept over the last few days that he needed to find another way by which to measure his worth as a man. He thought that Hilde, in her turn, should not falter in her own budding acceptance of Lothar's death.

Because unless he missed his mark, Leal was certain that this man and the ”teacher” she recently spoke of were one and the same. In that moment, whatever she was seeing – whatever vision was bringing her spirit close to crumbling when nothing else did these last few hours – it was merely an illusion.

”Hilde,” he said by her ear, the first time he had ever uttered her name. He had forced his voice into a gentleness it was not accustomed to, but all the same, the content was devastating. ”Lothar is dead.”

His right arm was around her torso; his left hand was firmly holding her shoulder. Through their connection, Leal clearly felt the effects his words had on Hilde. Her slight trembling was replaced by a rigidity so absolute, he felt the hard muscles underneath her previously soft flesh.

It was then that Leal fully comprehended and believed what all the rumors and stories had been saying about her all along. A person who was only playing around with swords and other combat skills would never be able to earn these badges. One had to work hard and mean it, day after day, hour after hour…

The woman he held truly was a martial princess. She was taught by none other than the man Leal held in the highest regard, higher even than he regarded his own father.

Hilde straightened of her own accord. With an iron control that he was able to feel through the fabric separating their skin, she managed not to slap at Leal's hands in order to extricate herself from his hold. Before stepping away from him to walk on her own, she threw him the fiercest, the hardest, the coldest of looks – his thanks for spitting on the spark of hope she'd dared to entertain.

Because he would have to be made of stone not to notice: her heart belonged to Lothar.

Was there ever a moment harsher for a man who had just fallen in love?