Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Elara’s POV

“That’s the civilian?”

The voice hit me 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 smelled of sweat, leather, and something metallic 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 me.

Kaelen walked beside me, 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 me feel exposed in entirely the wrong way.

The man who’d spoken stepped forward. He was somewhere 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 me. Top to bottom. The kind of assessment that measured 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 men’s spines to water.

“Her name 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.”

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

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

“Don’t thank me yet.” Riley’s eyes glinted with something between amusement 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 smelled 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 me, “—entertainment.”

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

“Then forge me,” I said.

Silence.

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

“Marcus.” Kaelen’s voice was quiet. Absolute. “She trains. She is treated with the same 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 me. Something shifted in his dark gold eyes—warm, brief, meant only for me. 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 time.

“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 someone 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 me, 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 slammed 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 me—sparring with wooden swords, grappling on mats, running drills with weighted vests. Some watched me out of the corners of their eyes. Waiting for me to stop. Waiting for me 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 something bitter and herbal. “Drink. All of it.”

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

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

“I considered it.”

She almost smiled. “Come 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 me with a trainee knight named Jake—young, overeager, built like a brick wall. He clearly expected me to be an easy partner. He was wrong about the easy part. I was, however, spectacularly bad.

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

“You’re telegraphing,” Riley said, crouching beside me. “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, something 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 me with considerably more respect than he had moments ago.

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

I wiped my mouth. “Depends.”

“Your family name. Frostfang.” Her auburn ponytail swayed as she tilted her head. “That’s a Northern duchy name. 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 perimeter—” 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.

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