Ellette & Thalin – A Blade Between Us They met in the sparring yard—young, sharp-edged, and already carrying the weight of their names like a second weapon. Ellette of House Celestriaire moved with measured precision, shaped by Feywild elegance and a need to prove she belonged. Thalin of the Unseelie Court was all flash and flourish—arrogant, composed, annoyingly perfect. Their first words were not greetings, but insults masked as critiques. “If you’re going to overextend like that, try not to make it so obvious,” Ellette had said, wiping sweat from her brow after disarming him. “If you’re going to pretend that wasn’t luck, try to sound more convincing,” Thalin replied with a smirk. From then on, they clashed—verbally, physically, emotionally. Instructors called it “healthy competition.” Everyone else saw the fire between them. But beneath the bickering and blows was something unspoken: mutual respect. Neither ever won more than the other. And neither ever admitted how much they looked forward to the next bout. Thalin, ever the court-trained charmer, kept his admiration veiled beneath teasing jabs and confident posturing. He was infuriatingly unreadable, except in the rare moments when his guard slipped—and Ellette, for all her distaste, noticed. She hated that he was skilled. Hated that he could make her laugh when she least expected it. Hated the way he sometimes looked at her like she was the only real thing in the world. Their rivalry stretched into adolescence, evolving into something stranger: familiarity. Late-night sparring matches under moonlight. Banter that turned softer when no one else was listening. A shared understanding of what it meant to live in the shadows of greater expectations. So when her father announced the betrothal—to unite House Celestriaire and the Unseelie—Ellette felt her stomach sink. Thalin didn’t object. He even smiled, said something charming about “finally having her to himself.” But Ellette could see it—the fear behind his eyes, the knowledge that the game they’d been playing had just become real. “Don’t act like this is what you wanted,” she told him bitterly, days before she fled. “I never wanted you like this,” he said. “Not… chained to me.” That was the last time she saw him—before the hags, before Visidera vanished, before the surge of draconic power lit her world on fire. ⸻ Now? Sometimes she wonders if Thalin hated her for running. If he still holds the scars of an alliance that never was. Or worse—if he still waits, believing they might become what was promised. And sometimes—when the wind cuts cold and her sword feels heavier than it should—Ellette wonders what would’ve happened if she hadn’t run. If the boy she once sparred with under moonlight might have become something else. Something worth staying for. Scene: “The First Cut Isn’t the Deepest” Location: Moonlit Duelling Arena, Court of Celestriaire The crowd murmured with eager curiosity as two masked duellists stepped into the ring—an honoured tradition of the Fey courts. Names were withheld. Only skill would speak. Moonlight shimmered over the polished stone, catching on Ellette’s white-platinum hair as she pulled her hood low. Her leather armour whispered as she moved, the Radiant Moonblade at her hip. She hadn’t been home long—but long enough to be invited, or rather challenged, to appear. Across the ring, her opponent stood with graceful indifference, his posture lazy, practiced, dangerous. A black half-cape hung from one shoulder, and a silver rapier caught the light like ice. His face was mostly hidden beneath a high-collared mask, but the way he moved—it was familiar. Too familiar. Don’t think about it, Ellette told herself. Just fight. Get through it. A bell chimed. The match began. Their blades met in a flash—steel-on-steel, spark and grunt, step and twist. He was fast. Elegant. Cocky. She hated how instinctively she remembered his rhythm. “You’ve got fire,” he said mid-parry, voice rich, smooth. “Most in this court just twirl and pose.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t have time for twirling.” “Pity. I hear it’s good for morale.” The fight escalated. Ellette feinted low, then twisted her wrist and sent a ripple of arcane energy through her sword. He barely deflected it, stumbling a half-step. “You’re not court-trained,” he said, more serious now. “I was. I got better.” His tone shifted. Softer. Curious. “Where did you learn to move like that?” She hesitated, breathing hard. “Far from here.” Another clash—then her blade caught a notch in his pauldron and forced him to spin back. His hood slipped. Moonlight caught on sharply angled features. Violet eyes. Arrogant. Handsome. Unmistakable. Her breath caught in her throat. “Thalin?” He froze mid-stance. His eyes widened. His mask fell away. “Ellette?” Silence. Neither moved. The crowd murmured, sensing tension beyond the match. “It’s been… years,” Thalin said, lowering his blade. His voice was unreadable. “I thought you were dead. Or worse.” “I was worse,” she replied softly. “But I got better.” A beat passed. Then his expression darkened—pain flashing across it before he buried it behind a smirk. “You came back for a duel? How poetic. Tell me—was running away not dramatic enough the first time?” The words hit harder than any blow. “I didn’t have a choice.” “Didn’t you?” he said, circling again. “You fled, Ellette. Left the alliance, your house—me—with nothing but silence. And now you want to win a tournament like none of it ever happened?” Her grip on the Moonblade tightened. “I never wanted to be anyone’s pawn, Thalin. Not yours. Not my father’s.” “And I never wanted you as a prisoner. I wanted—” He cut himself off, breath shallow. “Doesn’t matter anymore,” he finished, turning away, blade hanging at his side. Ellette looked at him—not as a rival or opponent, but as the boy who once sparred with her under stars. “I didn’t come back for you,” she said. “But I’m not running this time.” He laughed bitterly, eyes glassy but proud. “Then draw. Let’s see who’s changed more.” Their blades lifted again. Not for victory. Not for vengeance. But because it was the only way they could speak. “I hated you for leaving,” Thalin said at last, voice low and even. “Not just because of the alliance. Because you didn’t say goodbye.” “Would it have made a difference?” “Yes,” he said, too quickly. She turned to him, eyes meeting his. “I was scared, Thalin. Everything was falling apart—Visidera, my magic, the betrothal. I didn’t know who I was. Only that I couldn’t be her anymore. The girl you grew up with.” “You were never just a girl,” he said. “You were fire pretending to be frost.” She blinked. “Is that supposed to be poetic?” “You always hated my metaphors.” “You always hated my metaphors.” “Only when they were accurate.” That drew a small laugh from him—real, if a little sad. “I didn’t come back for you,” she said again, quieter this time. “I know.” “But seeing you again…” Her voice caught, throat tightening. “I didn’t realize how much I missed having someone who knew me before. Before the hags. Before Brynmar. Before I became… this.” He looked at her, really looked. “You’re still you, Ellette. Just sharper. Sadder.” He hesitated. “Stronger.” “You sound surprised.” “I’m not. I just… I don’t know if I’m strong enough to face you as you are now.” That stopped her. She turned fully toward him, studying the face that had once been her rival, her equal, her almost-something. “Then don’t face me,” she said. “Stand with me.” He held her gaze. And slowly—hesitantly—nodded. Not a promise. Not yet. But something very close.