the rejected mate: special awakening

---

Felice wasn't sure how she got roped into sparring practice.

One minute she was quietly sneaking through the palace halls with Liora, and the next she was standing in the royal training arena, holding a wooden sword, across from none other than Prince Lysander the Annoying.

Correction: Prince Lysander the unfairly attractive, smug, too-good-at-everything, mysterious firstborn heir who made her magic short-circuit.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered, swinging the sword lazily.

"You're holding it wrong," he said, not even looking up from adjusting his gloves. "You're going to hurt yourself."

"Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Captain Condescending."

He gave her a sideways glance, lips twitching. "It's not a vote. It's a fact."

Felice narrowed her eyes. "Would you like a fact? I once threw a demon across a field with my bare hands."

"Impressive. But can you block this?" he lunged.

She yelped, barely bringing her sword up in time to deflect him. It sent a jolt of heat up her arms—and not just from the impact.

"Was that necessary?" she huffed.

"Very. You'll thank me when someone's actually trying to kill you."

They circled each other, the tension thick with more than just combat. Felice tried to focus, but his eyes—those silvery storm-cloud eyes—kept pulling her in. She hated that.

And she really hated that he was kind of… fun to fight.

"You're fast," he said, breathless after another clash. "Sloppy, but fast."

She smirked. "Thanks, I learned from years of dodging entitled werewolves and scalding teapots."

Lysander actually laughed—a rare, deep sound that made her heart stutter.

"Oh no," she said dramatically. "The Crown Prince has a sense of humor. Alert the press."

He rolled his eyes and tossed her a water bottle. "Don't get used to it."

As she caught it, their fingers brushed—briefly, unintentionally. And in that tiny second, a pulse of magic zipped between them, sharp and golden.

They both froze.

"Did you feel—?" she started.

"Nope," he said way too quickly.

"Liar."

His smirk returned, but this time, it didn't feel smug. It felt nervous. Curious. Almost… fond?

"You're something else, Felice," he said, backing away.

"You don't even know the half of it."

He turned, walking toward the archway. "Then I guess I better keep training you."

She watched him go, heart thudding like a war drum.

Because she didn't want to admit it yet, but the lines were blurring.

Between enemies and allies.

Between banter and flirting.

Between rejection—and something that felt dangerously like fate.

---