Page 61 of Embers of Ruin

…I’m absolutely counting.

On the eighth, I manage to twist free before she can throw me. The movement is ugly, desperate, and probably not at all what she intended, but I stay on my feet.

Mazelle’s eyes narrow and I grin, panting. “Was that acceptable?”

“It was extremely messy.”

“But acceptable?”

“Barely.”

"I'll take barely. Barely means I’m efficient," I pant, pushing sweat-damp curls out of my face.

They’ve grown several inches since I arrived at the palace, and after the last hour of being thrown into the sand, they're determined to blind me. Muttering a curse beneath my breath, I yank one of the laces from my tunic free and gather the silver strands into a proper ponytail. As I tighten the knot, a familiar chill skates down my spine. I glance toward the stone walkway above the training yard and freeze.

Thorin stands with all the grace of a marble statue, eyes fixed on me. And he probably watched as I got my ass handed to me for several minutes. I refuse to be humiliated, so I lift my chin and glare at him. Maybe if I look annoyed enough, he'll vanish.

He stands alone against the black stone, one hand resting lightly on the railing as the wind stirs the dark fabric draped over his shoulders. Our eyes meet, and a searing pain blooms across my wrist. I hiss under my breath, rubbing the spot. Training must’ve done more damage than I realized. His eyes flash silver for the briefest moment before fading back to gray.

The sounds of the training yard fade into the background until all I can hear is my own heartbeat. His expression is impossible to read from this distance, but there is an intensity in his gaze that roots me to the spot. The air feels charged, every breath humming beneath my skin. All I can focus on are his eyes.

Thorin's gaze moves over me, taking in what I imagine is a truly impressive combination of sweat, dirt, and whatever dignity Mazelle hasn't already beaten out of me. I expect the familiar smirk.

Instead, he smiles.

Not the arrogant curve of his mouth I've grown used to. A real smile, slow, warm, and so unexpected that for a moment, I forget where I am.

Gods. It's beautiful.

Tightness pulls at my chest. I haven't seen him in days, and seeing him now brings a feeling I don't care to examine too closely. I don’t know how I let myself forget how damned handsome he is, but this is different. I've never seen him look like this. Never seen the severity leave his face completely, or the king disappear long enough for me to glimpse the man beneath the title.

And he's smiling at me.

I stare back, transfixed, and after a moment, his smile widens as if he knows exactly what it's doing to me.

Suddenly, a hand hooks around the back of my neck and the world flips. My feet leave the ground before I even realize what’s happening. Sand rushes toward my face, and I hit the training yard hard enough that the impact rattles my teeth. Dizziness crashes over me.

“Eyes on your opponent, Lyra.”

I blink up at Mazelle through watering eyes.

Lyra.

Not Lady Tarethyn.

I push myself onto my elbows and immediately look back to the walkway, but Thorin is gone. At that moment, pain chooses to bloom along my hip, hot and immediate. I curl onto my side and press a hand to the sand, biting back several words that would probably get me assigned to some worse form of training. Something involving cliffs. Or fire. Or Mazelle before breakfast.

A shadow falls across me and I expect Mazelle. Instead, I see black boots. Riven lets out a quiet laugh beneath his breath. Beside him, Onyx's mouth twitches, betraying the ghost of a smile.

Mazelle's gaze sweeps over the three of us, unimpressed.

“You.” She points at Riven. “Why are you laughing?”

Riven points at himself, eyebrows lifting. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

He straightens immediately. “I wasn’t⁠—”