Page 35

I didn’t give him an inch, jaw tight, staring right back through the racing thrum of my own blood.

“You can let go of my face now, Captain,” I said, my voice holding steady by sheer stubborn will. “Unless you’re planning to intimidate me out of the duel.”

Caspian’s eyes narrowed. His thumb brushed over my cheekbone, a slow, deliberate pressure that felt entirely too heavy to be casual.

“If I wanted to intimidate you, Trouble,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough rasp that scraped right against my ribs, “you wouldn’t have the breath left to talk back.”

He didn’t pull away. His gaze dropped to my lips, lingering there with a slow, dangerous weight, before his hand slid down the column of my neck. He pressed his thumb right over my hammering pulse—holding me there, steady and trapped—before he finally let go.

The sudden loss of his warmth left a chill on my skin.

Caspian took two steps back, putting physical space between us. The stoic mask of High Captain snapped back over his features, turning his face to stone as he clasped his hands behind him.

“Tomorrow, the courtly games are over,” Caspian said, his deep voice leaving no room for argument. “You passed the pool, but the sand won’t care about your titles or your blood. Prepare for real combat training tomorrow. Dawn, at the outdoor rings. Bring your fighting leathers, your sharpest blades, and whatever stamina you have left. Because if you can’t survive me, you won’t last a second against what More Alora is bringing to that ring.”

Oh, I had stamina. More than he knew. But he’d just turn his back, retreating behind whichever cold, untouchable mask suited the hour, pretending the heat between us meant nothing at all.

He turned on his heel, his heavy boots striking the flagstones as he marched to the exit. He cleared the door and slammed the heavy oak shut behind him.

I was left alone in the quiet room, the winter wind rattling the balcony glass as grey fog rolled over the spires. I looked down at my bleeding hand, my fingers slowly curling into a tight fist as the countdown to spring began.

SIXTEEN

Dawn broke over the eastern cliffs in a cold grey that barely lit the training mats.

Every morning began the exact same way: the coppery taste of sweat in my mouth and the sharp crack of my spine meeting the granite flagstones. Caspian was merciless. He didn’t offer the patient guidance of an instructor, nor did he handle me like a fragile princess who might break under pressure. He fought like a soldier clearing a rival from his path, his movements fast, heavy, and completely unforgiving.

He beat me into the mat every single day.

I lunged, my training blade cutting through the freezing mist in a tight extension aimed at his thigh. But halfway through the arc, the world stuttered. The howling wind died to a crawl, the frost-bitten air growing thick and heavy like amber, and my own racing momentum dragged as if I were wading through glass.

Caspian didn’t even bother parrying with steel. He just stepped right inside my guard, his broad frame cutting off the pale morning light as his gloved hand locked around my wrist. The impact rattled straight up my arm, but it wasn’t just a shock of bone—it was a sudden, hollow ache, like he’d just yanked the heat right out of my blood. The seconds hitched, dragging out painfully as he moved with a speed that didn’t make any sense. Before I could even adjust, he twisted his hips, used my own momentum against me, and threw me hard onto the stone.

The breath blasted out of my lungs. I stared up at him, dizzy and aching, and for a split, disorienting second, I thought I saw dark, ink-like shadows crawling across his skin before they vanished into the cold morning air.

The air burst from my lungs in a harsh gasp. Before I could catch my breath or scramble back, Caspian dropped low, his knee pinning my leg to the mat, his blue eyes locked onto mine. The heat off his chest cut through the morning chill, crowding my space so completely that my throat went dry.

“You’re still waiting for the floor to drop, Trouble,” Caspian murmured, his low voice rough and quiet against the wind.

He leaned closer, the steady, cold mask of High Captain cracking just enough for me to see the tension underneath. His fingers tightened around my wrist, his thumb dragging across the raw, inflamed skin where the fresh black and gold marks hummed. A heavy breath hitched in his chest, a muscle ticking along his jawline.

“On that sand,” he said, his tone dropping into a low growl, “if you look down to check your footing for even half a second, More Alora will take your head. Do you hear me, Tauriel? I am not going to let you bleed out on that ring.”

Beneath the bark of a commander, I heard what he refused to say. The raw, desperate edge of his panic.

“I was testing your reflexes, Captain,” I shot back, though my racing heart gave me away.

A faint, mocking smirk touched his mouth before he released his hold and stood up, leaving my skin cold in the wind. “Again,” he commanded, stepping back into a clean stance.

By midday, the physical punishment of the mats felt like a relief compared to the lower vaults.

The hours spent with Malakai were pure mental grinding. He didn’t use weapons or physical force; he used the quiet mechanics of Remnikai manipulation to bypass my defenses, picking through my thoughts to drag out my deepest doubts. He forced me to relive the damp streets of Northern California, the years of quiet isolation, and the memory of my mother’s face until my head throbbed from the pressure.

It got so intense that the boundaries of the room broke down entirely.

Soren stood at the iron threshold, his face pale as he watched from the doorway, his dark leathers rigid as my screams echoed off the volcanic glass walls. On the fourth day, his composure finally snapped. Soren stepped forward, his hand slamming down onto his hilt, his boot striking the floor as he moved to intervene.

“Enough, Malakai!” Soren barked, his voice cracking with anger.