Why must his feelings mess with him like this. He has brought many girls to bed before, Ptolema is different. She is not like most girls. She is strong, humorous, beautiful, and opinionated.

Droian dug his nails into his desk. The skin underneath starts to bleed as he digs them in deeper. His eyes were fixed on his dagger before he lifted both hands from the table and grabbed it. Anger boiled within him, making every muscle tense. He slid his finger down the blade. Blood dropped from his pointer finger and onto his desk.

Killing his father would be easy, but he could not bring himself to do it. All Droian can do now is wait for the illness to kill his father. It could take months, years, maybe even decades depending on how much his father is willing to push through the pain.

A knock from the door made him jump up and hide his bleeding finger and the dagger. One of his father's royal guard stood in the doorway while saluting Droian. He snarled and followed the guard down the stairs and into the training room. Ptolema is already here. She is shooting arrows at three targets - at the same time! Droian stiffened his back and stifled a cough. She shot four arrows, hitting all four targets' bullseye, and turned around. Her braid flinged to the front. Droian tightened his hands, for he wanted to rip that braid apart and feel her hair between his fingers. No! He must not think this way!

"Grab a wooden sword," Droian ordered with the last of his strength. He used all of his strength to restrain himself from pouncing on her. She looked magnificent in his old battle uniform.

She grabbed a wooden sword, stepped onto the platform. Waiting for him to get onto the platform too, she ran her finger down the wooden blade as if it could kill. Droian grabbed a wooden sword, and as if ready for years, right as he stepped onto the platform, Ptolema attacked him. He used his feet as a defense. His right foot aimed directly at her gut. She leaned out of the way, while pushing her sword harder onto his. The wood cracked on his sword.

How! These are carved from the strongest trees in all of Gricoristiv.

The brutality in her eyes never faltered even as he pushed against her sword. It took every ounce of strength to push her sword off of his.

She hissed as she had to step back. Droian balanced himself - to slowly. She already advanced on him. Ptolema wedged her sword into the crease of his neck. A kill shot.

Black dots covered his vision as she backed away from him. His bodyguards ran to him, to make sure he was okay. He simply waved them off, for Droian likes the challenge his opponent had just made.

"Drop your sword, and push it off the platform." He would win in hand to hand combat. Droian could feel the adreline pumping through his veins as she dropped the wood, and pushed it off the platform. He did the same.

They both advanced at the same time.

{|《~》|}

She loved the feeling of her fist meeting his unharmed flesh. His skin felt as if he never had seen a battle before in its entire life. She twisted her elbow into his stomach and wretched her knee into his face. Droian's guards had done nothing, even when he kneeled on the floor, nose dripping dark-red blood.

He was a fool to think he could win against her. She was cold, bloodthirsty, and merciless. When he crawls on all fours is when she kicked his head to knock him out cold. No, he was not dead. The guards brought his body to the infirmary. No magic to help him, only some herbs and cloths to heal him. Ptolema pittied him. She pittied the entire royal family, for a rebellion is starting outside of their own walls, without them knowing. She would kill them herself, if it wouldn't kill thousands more in the process.

Ptolema grabbed the daggers off the table and started to throw them at the animal shaped targets. Heart. Brain. She hit every lethal point twice.

"Your very good." A voice sounded behind her. Ptolema's reflexes made the dagger fling from her hand and fly toward the voice. He ducked in time to dodged the dagger so it would hit a lame painting behind him.

Ptolema rolled her eyes and turned back around without apologizing. The Captain of the Guard walked toward her in a swift three steps, a walk that would usually take twenty steps to cross for a normal person.

He grabbed the daggers from the side table and started to throw them at the targets. The muscles in his back show through his loose shirt. Every dagger he threw hit the board with such elegance, Ptolema gasped as the first dagger hit the board. How had he done that - no mistakes, at all.

"Do you wanna duel me?" He asked pointing his head toward the platform. "If I win, I own you for a day. You win, you own me for a day. Sound like deal?"

There had to be a trick. Why would he barge in here, start throwing knives, then ask her to duel with a price. Ptolema set aside her many questions. She would win. She was bloodthirsty and brutal. She was Ptolema.

"Deal."