Page 17

For the next two weeks, Soren became a constant presence in my life.

He followed me down to the freezing lower vaults where I spent hours studying lesser magic. He didn’t crowd me; he kept three paces back, his long legs stretched out, quietly working his way through stack after stack of tactical logs. When my arms grew stiff from repeated casting drills, he didn’t offer pity or unsolicited advice. Instead, he’d slide a steaming mug of tea across the wooden table, sweetened with a spoonful of honey he’d somehow managed to talk out of the lower kitchen staff.

“My mother was half-provincial,” Soren mentioned one quiet night, looking up from a faded map. “The high lords treated her like dirt on their boots until she out-fought every recruit in her vanguard tier. Don’t let their words get under your skin, Tauriel. The granite doesn’t care about your bloodline. It only cares about who stays upright.”

Half-provincial. Half highborn, half lowborn. Different than my half-fae, half-human blood, but I could see the connection he was trying to make.

I tried to hold onto my initial annoyance, wanting to view him as nothing more than the leash Caspian had strapped around my neck. But his quiet, steady loyalty was impossible to hate. In a fortress built on deception and knife-edge politics, Soren was genuinely good.

The training rings, however, offered no such comfort.

The morning sun was nothing more than a pale, watery blur trying to cut through the thick sea fog clinging to the cliffs. The air was harsh, tasting of salt, damp slate, and cold sweat.

I stood at the center of the granite ring, my chest heaving, my legs burning from three hours of continuous drills. Soren stood by the outer rail, his arms crossed over his leathers, eyes scanning the yard.

High above us, perched on the stone gallery rails, Caspian watched. He hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. He stood like an iron sentinel, broad arms folded, those ice-blue eyes tracking my every footstep with an intense, unyielding focus that made the hair on my arms stand up.

“Second Lieutenant Varyn,” Rhea’s voice called out from the racks. “You’re up. Pick an opponent.”

Mal stepped out of the line of transfers. He moved with that same fluid, effortless grace, his dark leathers fitted to the lean muscle of his torso. His hazel eyes flicked briefly to Soren, then up toward Caspian on the gallery, before settling squarely on my face.

“I’ll take the Princess,” Mal said, his low voice carrying clearly across the quiet yard.

I drew my training sword, lifting my chin. “Let’s see if you can back that up, Lieutenant.”

We squared off. Mal didn’t rush in with Kaelor’s wild, angry energy. He circled slowly, his boots making almost no sound against the granite grit, his eyes reading every tiny shift in my posture. He waited, listening to my breath, matching my rhythm until it felt like we were moving on the same count.

I launched the first strike, lunging forward with a quick, two-part extension aimed at his ribs. Mal parried—not with a violent clash of steel, but with a smooth, turning redirection that brought his broad chest inches from mine.

Our leathers brushed. The sudden proximity hit me like a wave of heat. His hazel eyes were wide, gold flecks catching the dim morning light as his free hand snapped out, catching my right wrist before I could pull back.

“Too wide on the recovery,” Mal murmured, his breath brushing my cheek.

High above on the gallery, a sharp, grinding crack echoed through the ring.

Caspian had clamped his hand down so hard on the ancient stone banister that a chunk of granite fractured under his fingers, tumbling off the edge and dropping thousands of feet into the surf below. His jaw was set tight enough to snap teeth, the corded muscles of his neck rigid as he stared down at Mal’s hand resting against my skin.

Without a word, Caspian turned on his heel and stormed off the gallery, his heavy boots slamming against the stairs as he vanished into the interior keep.

The sudden distraction caught me off guard. My eyes flicked toward Caspian’s retreating shadow for a fraction of a second.

Mistake.

Mal capitalized instantly. In a blur of speed, his boot hooked behind my heel. He swept my legs out from beneath me, his blade twisting my weapon cleanly from my grip with a loud metallic clatter.

I hit the granite hard, the thud knocking the breath straight out of my lungs. Before I could scramble back, Mal dropped low, his weight pinning me flat against the flagstones, the flat of his training blade pressed firm against the center of my throat.

Cleanly beaten? No. This wasn’t just a loss.

He hadn’t just outfought me; he had orchestrated the entire sequence. He knew a lingering touch—the deliberate way he pinned me—would get a reaction from Caspian across the yard. He had used my position as bait, deliberately driving a wedge of rage and possessiveness right where it would cause the most fracture.

How could he have possibly known how Caspian would react? What did Mal see, or what did he know, that I was entirely too blind to catch?

My chest heaved against his chest plate, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Mal didn’t immediately back off. He kept the pressure steady, hovering over me, his hazel eyes dark and focused as he looked down into my glare. He leaned lower, his lips stopping near my ear, his voice dropping to a smooth, quiet murmur that sent a sudden heat straight down my spine.

“It’s fascinating how easily a fortress fractures when you push the right stone. Just make sure you’re watching the real threat next time, Tauriel...” Mal whispered against my skin. “not the one making the most noise.”