Page 100 of Embers of Ruin

He steps closer until only I can hear him. “Or you'll be mending your injuries from now to the end of time.”

I gape at him. How does he know that I can heal myself? Onyx. He must’ve told Thorin. I whip my head toward him. Onyx meets my stare from across the yard, looking thoroughly unimpressed. He absolutely did not tell him.

Which means…

I narrow my eyes at Thorin. "You've been eavesdropping."

His reply is a smirk.

That motherfucker.

* * *

We spar with sword and magic, light clashing against shadow for what feels like hours. My magic bursts too quickly, too brightly, or too late—once sideways, knocking over a weapons rack while Cadrin jumps back like the wood personally attacked him. Onyx steps forward when a shadow comes too close, but Thorin's gaze cuts to him before he crosses the yard, and whatever silent argument passes between them feels like another weapon in the air. I notice all of it. I notice too much these days.

By the time sweat dampens my tunic and my arms ache, my frustration has sharpened into something raw. I'm tired of failing in front of an audience. Tired of Thorin knowing exactly when I'm about to break and pushing just hard enough to keep me from it.

The next spear forms. I don’t wait for him to throw it.

My magic surges, and instead of imagining a wall, I imagine the feeling of refusing—the way I defied his order not to use my magic in Elvora. The way I refused to cry after Mazelle knocked me on my ass one too many times.

The way I refused to let this palace swallow me whole.

A shield blooms from my palm, silver-gold, trembling like molten gold poured through crystal.

For one glorious second, no one speaks, and I grin. Smugly.

“I did that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Not a terrible imaginary wall, then?”

“It could have been better.”

“You are physically incapable of praise. How hard is it to say ‘well done, Lyra’?”

“I have praised you. Many times. And you have never complained… not once.” A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face.

Heat creeps into my cheeks and I know he is absolutely not talking about the training ring.

“I hate you,” I spit with as much venom as I can muster.

The words have come so easily since the day I arrived. They don't anymore. This time, it hurts a little to say them to Thorin. I say them anyway.

“No, you do not.”

He looks at me and taps his heart twice, as if reminding me of the very thing I try to avoid with him. I hate that he keeps saying that. More than that, I hate that each time, I’m a little less convinced he’s wrong.

My cheeks warm, so I raise my hand again. “Throw another.”

“Lyra,” Onyx says, his voice low. “You should rest.”

The concern in his voice makes my chest tighten and my temper flare all at once.

Gods. Why does everyone insist on worrying about me?

“I'm fine, Onyx.”