I’m not ready.
***
“Hey, Daromir, wish me luck for tomorrow,” Branim shouts without breaking her form against the practice pillar. At nearly twenty-six, she’s one of the oldest cadets, and tomorrow’s tournament is probably her last chance to win a position. Branim is tenacious in a fight, second only to Daromir, but she doesn’t have the manners most nobles want.
“If you need luck, you don’t deserve to win,” Daromir Azri answers, not looking up from his stretches. He won’t be competing in tomorrow’s tournament, but he’s looking forward to scaring a few combatants in today’s practice bouts.
“You’ll never get sponsored with that attitude,” Branim says. “You’ll be here ten years from now, just like me, waiting for a real open tournament.”
Daromir shrugs.
Unlike Branim, Daromir doesn’t need to brag. Also unlike Branim, he’s talented enough that nobles are willing to overlook his attitude. House Miraz has been talking to him about their daughter Irenka.
House Miraz would be a perfect position, but sometimes Daromir wonders if life as a bloodguard is really what he wants. He’s sixteen years old, and he started cadet training eight years ago. The calling runs in the family—his aunt and grandfather are both bloodguards too. There’s just something hollow in the modern practice. Kaiskaran nobles are more concerned with losing poetry contests than losing their lives these days. Daromir doesn’t see the point in protecting people who don’t need it.
At least Irenka Miraz is only fifteen. Daromir has three years to decide whether he can tolerate her for the rest of his life.
Across the room, Branim hangs up her practice sword and inspects her armor stand. “I’m out of leather oil. Can you grab me some?”
“How are you out already? You’re not supposed to fuck yourself with it.” Daromir unwinds from his stretch and stands up. “Whatever. I’d love to avoid your ugly face for a minute.”
“Funny, I asked you to leave because I hateyourugly face.”
Daromir heads from the training room into dusty hallways that ring with distant cheers and clashing swords. The sound of the practice matches fills Daromir with anticipation despite himself. He isn’t sure about the pageantry, but the prospect of combat still heats his blood.
How many combatants will Daromir face when he finally enters a tournament? Will there be real competition, or will House Miraz’s sponsorship warn everyone off?
The store room is large and well-lit, smelling of oil and wood and centuries of stone dust. Daromir opens the door and immediately knows someone is inside. His eight years of training aren’t necessary. Even a child would notice the poorly muffled sniffling.
Daromir should leave the person to their misery. Sometimes new cadets get nervous before fights, and Daromir wouldn’t want to embarrass anyone. He certainly wouldn’t cry in front of Branim or the other assholes.
Except the boy huddled on top of a crate clearly isn’t a cadet.
“Are you lost?” Daromir asks bluntly. “You’re not supposed to be back here.”
The boy freezes, then wipes his eyes with his sleeve. When he looks up, his appearance stuns Daromir.
Elegant, fine-boned, with a light golden tan and white-blond hair. The boy is the perfect emblem of Kaiskaran nobility. Especially those gorgeous, unreal green eyes. His coloring is so similar to Daromir’s own. But where Daromir’s pale hair is cropped short, Vana’s flows loose around his shoulders. Where Daromir’s glare is intimidating, Vana’s green eyes are wide and vulnerable.
Yes—this is Vana Tellik, the very boy every bloodguard cadet of age will compete over tomorrow.
“I’m sorry.” Vana’s voice sounds exactly how Daromir expects: young and soft. “I’ll leave in a minute. I didn’t think anyone would come in here, it seemed like a good place to…”
“A good place to cry?” Daromir closes the door for privacy. Vana’s right. Going around crying in front of people is a bad idea. The cadets will talk, especially before the tournament, and the gossip will look bad for Vana’s family. Kaiskara nobility values emotions, but only specific emotions. And only directed through suitably distant channels like poetry and painting. Bloodguard cadets don’t value emotions at all.
“I’m not crying,” Vana says, stricken. He raises a sleeve-covered hand to wipe under his eyes.
“Of course you aren’t.” Daromir should probably leave. The boy obviously wants privacy. But something in Daromir rebels at the thought of leaving a problem unfixed. Leaving a person in need unhelped. Daromir’s no good at this sort of thing, but that’s never stopped him from trying anything. “If youwerecrying, what would you be crying about?”
Vana’s lip trembles. “You’ll think less of me.”
Daromir leans against the door. He likes the idea of his shoulders—still growing, but broader than Vana’s—forming an extra barrier between this sad boy and the world.
“We’ve just met, so I don’t think anything of you anyway. Just tell me, and I’ll tell you if it’s a dumb thing to cry about or not.”
Vana blinks, stunned out of his impending tears. “You’re very rude.”
“I’m honest,” Daromir corrects, then considers. “Fine, I’m honest and rude. Why are you crying? Maybe I can fix it.”
