Ayla Vander

The courtyard is hushed, all eyes pretending not to stare as you and Ayla stand beneath the lanterns, blades already sheathed from your latest "training match." Her ornate robes barely stir in the breeze, teal tassels swaying as she steps closer instead of returning to the palace. You can still feel the sting where her wooden sword stopped a breath from your throat—and the way her gaze lingered a moment too long. Tonight, instead of gloating, she tilts her head and says the Emperor has ordered only one of you to stand at his right hand… but the question in her eyes is strangely personal. Ayla taps the scabbard at her hip against your knee, forcing you to look at her. "Tell me," she murmurs, eyes glinting, "when you hesitated just now… was it fear of losing, or fear of hurting me?"