Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother Chapter 43

Elara’s POV

“That’s the civilian?”

The voice hit before I’d even crossed the threshold. Rough. Dismissive. Like gravel dragged across stone.

The training ground was nothing like I’d imagined. A converted warehouse on the eastern edge of the capital, all exposed brick and iron beams, with sand packed hard across the floor. Weapon racks lined the walls—swords, staffs, weighted chains. The air slled of sweat, leather, and sothing tallic that might have been old blood.

A dozen knights stood in loose formation near the center. Every single one of them turned to stare.

At .

Kaelen walked beside , dressed in black training clothes and a fitted undershirt that clung to the sculpted lines of his chest and arms like a second skin. He looked like he’d been carved from obsidian. Dangerous. At ease. Like he belonged here the way fire belonged in a forge.

I, on the other hand, was wearing borrowed training pants and a tight vest that made feel exposed in entirely the wrong way.

The man who’d spoken stepped forward. He was sowhere in his forties, thick-shouldered, brown hair threaded with silver. A jagged scar ran from his left temple all the way down to the corner of his mouth, pulling his expression into a permanent sneer.

Sir Marcus. Head instructor.

His eyes swept over . Top to bottom. The kind of assessnt that asured you in seconds and found you wanting.

“With all respect, Your Majesty.” He turned to Kaelen, arms folded. “Why am I babysitting an archive clerk?”

A ripple of low laughter from the knights behind him.

Heat crawled up my neck. My fingers curled into fists at my sides.

Kaelen didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. His voice dropped to that register I’d learned to recognize—the one that turned grown n’s spines to water.

“Her na is Elara Frostfang, Marcus. Use it.”

The laughter died.

Sir Marcus’s jaw tightened, but his posture shifted. Subtle. The barest dip of his chin.

“The woman who put Isolde Nightfire in the infirmary,” a woman’s voice cut in from the side. Lean, wiry, with a shoulder-length auburn ponytail and arms corded with muscle. She stepped out from behind the weapon rack, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Bare-handed, from what I heard.”

Sir Marcus’s scarred eyebrow twitched. “Rumors.”

“dical reports.” The woman tossed the cloth aside and extended a calloused hand to . “Riley Santos. Instructor. Welco to hell.”

I took her hand. Her grip was iron. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank yet.” Riley’s eyes glinted with sothing between amusent and warning. “Marcus hasn’t even started.”

Sir Marcus stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the individual ridges of that terrible scar. His breath slled like black tea and contempt.

“I don’t care who you put in the infirmary, civilian. This is the Royal Knights’ training ground. We forge soldiers here. Not—” his gaze flicked to Kaelen, then back to , “—entertainnt.”

Sothing cold and sharp unfurled in my chest. The sa thing that had woken when Isolde threatened Valerius. Not rage, exactly. Steadier than that. Harder.

“Then forge ,” I said.

Silence.

Sir Marcus stared at . For a long, uncomfortable mont, the only sound was the distant clang of tal from an adjacent room.

“Marcus.” Kaelen’s voice was quiet. Absolute. “She trains. She is treated with the sa respect as any recruit. That is not a request.”

The scar pulled tight as Sir Marcus’s jaw clenched. “Understood, Your Majesty.”

Kaelen held his gaze for another beat. Then he turned to . Sothing shifted in his dark gold eyes—warm, brief, ant only for . A flicker that said, Show them.

Then he stepped back toward the observation platform, and I was alone on the sand.

Sir Marcus didn’t waste ti.

“Endless push-ups. Countless burpees. Then laps until I say stop.”

He barked the orders like they were weapons. I dropped to the sand and started.

The initial push-ups were manageable. The subsequent sets burned. The final ones felt like soone had filled my arms with molten lead. Sand ground into my palms. Sweat dripped from my chin and made dark spots on the packed floor.

Behind , I heard the murmur.

“Ten gold coins says she doesn’t last an hour.”

“I’ll take that bet. Twenty says she cries.”

I pushed harder. Arms shaking. Core screaming.

Moonlight stirred. Her presence was warm, coiled tight at the base of my skull. Use it. Use the anger.

I am.

The burpees were worse. Each one slamd my body against the earth and demanded I leap upward again. My lungs caught fire halfway through. Soon, my vision blurred at the edges. I finished the final reps on pure fury.

“Laps!” Sir Marcus shouted.

I ran.

The warehouse was massive. Each circuit was massive. I lost count of the laps early on. My thighs burned. My calves cramped. The sand dragged at my feet like quicksand.

The knights trained around —sparring with wooden swords, grappling on mats, running drills with weighted vests. So watched out of the corners of their eyes. Waiting for to stop. Waiting for to fall.

I didn’t fall.

When Sir Marcus finally called halt, I was drenched. My vest stuck to my skin. My hands were raw and stinging. But I was standing.

No one said anything about the bet.

Riley appeared at my side with a towel and a flask of sothing bitter and herbal. “Drink. All of it.”

I drank. It tasted like dirt and crushed mint and sothing vaguely tallic. My muscles stopped screaming quite so loudly.

“Not bad, Elara,” Riley said. She leaned against the weapon rack, studying with sharp hazel eyes. “Most recruits vomit by the second set of burpees.”

“I considered it.”

She almost smiled. “Co on. Sir Marcus wants you on the mat for technique drills.”

The remainder of the two-hour drill was a blur of sweat and bruises.

Riley paired with a trainee knight nad Jake—young, overeager, built like a brick wall. He clearly expected to be an easy partner. He was wrong about the easy part. I was, however, spectacularly bad.

He swept my legs out from under multiple tis. Each ti, the sand hit my back hard enough to knock the air from my chest.

“You’re telegraphing,” Riley said, crouching beside . “Your weight shifts right before you move. Watch.” She demonstrated a leg sweep—smooth, sudden, devastating. Her center of gravity barely moved. “Again.”

I tried. Failed. Tried again. After several attempts, sothing clicked. My hip dropped, my leg whipped low, and Jake’s ankle buckled. He went down with a satisfying thud and a startled oof.

Riley nodded. “Better. You learn fast.”

Jake scrambled up, rubbing his elbow, looking at with considerably more respect than he had monts ago.

During a brief water break, Riley handed another flask and leaned close. “Can I ask you sothing?”

I wiped my mouth. “Depends.”

“Your family na. Frostfang.” Her auburn ponytail swayed as she tilted her head. “That’s a Northern duchy na. Old bloodline. Very old. I thought that line was—”

“Gone.” I kept my voice flat. “I’m an orphan. Raised by a minor baron’s family in the provinces. That’s all I know.”

Riley’s eyes narrowed. Not suspicious. Curious. The kind of curiosity that catalogued and filed and would return to the subject later.

“Interesting,” she murmured. “Because the Northern Frostfang duchy wasn’t just any bloodline. They were—”

The warehouse doors exploded inward.

A knight stumbled through—young, armor dented, face a mask of blood. He collapsed to one knee on the sand, chest heaving, one arm hanging limp and wrong at his side.

Every knight in the room went still.

“Eastern periter—” The wounded knight gasped for air. Blood dripped from a gash above his eye, spattering the sand. “The lumber outpost—ambush—at least a dozen rogues, maybe more—”

Sir Marcus was already moving. “Status of the patrol?”

The knight’s face twisted. “Sir Cassian is down. Thompson too.”

Riley’s hand closed around my arm like a vise.

“dical wing,” she said, already pulling toward the rear door. “Move.”