“Are you trying to figure out how old I am now? Because you could just ask.” He wiped the crumbs from his lips.
“How old are you, Fyn?”
“Thirty-one,” he said. “Lioran is older than me. You could probably just tell by looking at both of us.”
“You’re so old.” I squinted at him to keep the blinding golden rays of sunlight at bay.
“Maybe you’re just young.” He scoffed.
I cast a cutting glare. “No one in the human realm would say I was young. If I had stayed in Bailoc, I would have already been married off. In fact, it could have easily happened years ago.”
My throat constricted when I thought of my brother’s commander who wanted my hand before the war. The stench of the road clung to him, even when he didn’t travel. And the way he looked at me could have been mistaken for a starving man looking at his dinner.
I hoped Prince Soren wasn’t as vile as he was. He very well could be.
“Twenty-something is still considered young amongst the fae, but our lifespan does make it different. I suppose thirty-one is considered young too.” His eyes glowed just as every fae’s did. Fyn’s were a pale green that came alive whenever he was extremely sure of himself.
He didn’t even care to ask me how old I was.
“I’m twenty-three.” I shoved a slender piece of dried meat onto my tongue. It was salty and strangely sweet and sticky, like it had been coated in honey.
Maybe once I was married, no one would ask me how old I was again. Maybe they’d ask me nothing about myself at all.
“Your sister told me,” he said.
“I guess you know everything then.”
His lips parted as if he was going to say something, but he just slumped back into the tree as if there wasn’t anything else to know.
In days there may not be. Soon I may be a wife.
I’d be spoken for.
My fingers slid across my sword, still in its sheath. “Sparwith me.” I needed to move—to feel the strength inside of me while I still could.
Glittering fragments of light caught on the blade as I pulled it free.
I couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed when he retrieved his. “You seem pretty exhausted. Are you sure you can keep up?”
I wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, but he knew that. “I understand if you can’t handle it right now. Your ancient muscles probably need a break.”
He pulled his sword out of the sheath, his smile spreading faster. The blade sang as he swung it in front of me. “Are you going to tell the prince this is what you do in your spare time?”
“Some might find it intriguing.” I lifted the blade to catch his first blow.
He caught my next swing. “Or terrifying.” His mocking tone irked me.
The flat side of his sword nearly hit my waist when I looked up at him, but I quickly lunged away.
Shooting pain seized the muscles in my leg.
He pulled the blade back the moment I winced.
“Are you afraid to strike me, Fyn?” I raised my blade at him again. When he didn’t move, I stepped closer. “Do it anyway.”
“I won’t hit someone who is in pain—unless they deserve it,” he said.
“Raise your sword,” I hissed.
