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Before either of us can say or do something we would regret, Royad clears his throat, pulling back the sword from Myron’s block, and the Crow King releases me so fast I nearly fall on my ass. Only my years of living and fighting on swaying ships save me. In response, Myron’s mouth twitches with half-amusement.
When I manage to peel my gaze away from Myron, Royad is full-on grinning.
“What’s so funny?” It’s not fair to take out my annoyance on him since he isn’t the one who taunted me, who’s pushing my limits. But he’s there, and the way his mouth is split into a dashing white line channels the myriads of conflicting emotions in my chest in a way that has nothing to do with me not wanting either of them to realize how captivated I was a moment ago—and I don’t just mean the way Myron’s power held me captive.
Royad has the good sense to drop his grin as Myron steps to my side. “Nothing. Let’s train.” He shakes his head and lifts his sword again, announcing an attack while Myron’s gaze bounces back and forth between Royad and me.
Our blades meet, and once again, I’m reminded how much stronger and faster the Crows are. Fairies through and through even with their monstrous appearances. After a while of watching us from up close, Myron settles on a low, carved, cubic rock at the edge of the room, his gaze following the interaction with a thoughtful expression on his face. Not that my eyes are drifting to him every other moment because they’re not.
At least, that’s what I tell myself until Royad has me by the throat with the tip of his sword, and I have to admit that, had I been focused, I’d never have allowed for that to happen. Even with his superior reflexes.
Myron watches the steel beneath my chin with a crease between his brows, apparently trusting his friend to not slice through my skin even when he easily could.
When the Crow lowers the blade, I take a step back, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
“Again,” I demand, and Royad attacks so fast I barely get to catch my breath before his sword is at my throat once more. And this time, I wasn’t distracted by the Crow King’s chiseled features.
“I’m beginning to think you’re not putting in all you’ve got.” Royad’s remark is a challenge of a different sort. There is no heat in the space between us even when he is so close I can feel his breath on my face as he leans over me. It’s the look of a male trying to figure out a puzzle that has nothing to do with this room or the weapons pitted against each other.
He pulls back, pacing for a moment before he spins and faces me again. Myron merely studies his friend, his face as unreadable as that first day I met him.
“Attack.” Royad crooks his fingers, sword at the ready, and I don’t hesitate to launch myself at him. If I don’t try, I will never defeat him. Not that I’m expecting I ever could, but if I want to be better prepared for the next time the Flames attack, I need to use every opportunity to practice. Plus, if the Flames are anything as strong and magical as the Crows, I’d better get used to working with my disadvantage.
It takes another minute before Royad has me unarmed and backed against the wall.
“Come on, Ayna. There’s got to be more.” I don’t know what he means by that.
“In case you’ve forgotten,” I grit out as I shove at his feathered forearm to bring some space between his sword and my shoulder, “I’m human.” I slide a step aside, the hard rock of the wall scraping along my shoulders as I turn to the side, marching up to Myron, who summoned a pitcher of water out of thin air.
He holds it out to me, and I drink directly from it, my bad hand trembling from the weight, and try to ignore the way he studies me with fathomless black eyes.
When I’m done, he takes the pitcher back, and it vanishes from his fingers like it never existed in the first place. Gracefully, he rises to his feet, his wings unfolding as he holds his hand out for my weapon. From the corner of my eye, I spot the pitcher rematerializing on the rock where he was sitting a moment ago.
“I think Royad is right.” The darkness in his tone settles in my bones like a calling, like a pull summoning me to step into his space and demand what he means.
“About what?” I croak, deliberately turning away to find the other Crow pacing behind me, gaze on the rock. Not on the rock—on the pitcher.
“I think you are holding back, Ayna. There is more that you can do than half heartedly wield a dagger.” If it’s meant to be an insult, it doesn’t hit, for all I can feel is the bubbling sensation that they are onto something even when I can’t put my finger on what exactly it could be.
Until Myron turns to face the rock as well—face thepitcheras well.
“Water, Ayna.”
It takes me a moment to process what he’s saying. Then the moment in the murderous bathing room flashes back into my mind, and I can feel in my very essence that they are right.
We haven’t talked about what happened in his room since the day of the Fire Fairy attack—neither the kiss nor the way the lake saved his library from burning to the ground—probably saved me, too—and I was content to let both topics rest. I haven’t gone back into the murderous bathing room for fear that the lake’s wrath would be for me this time and, just like so many other traumatic experiences, compartmentalizing them at the back of my mind seemed so much easier. But both Myron and Royad are eyeing me now, various degrees of curiosity on their handsome features, and my voice turns into a squeak as I ask what exactly they are suggesting I can do with water.
“I don’t think it’s coincidence the door opened for you that day, Ayna,” Myron explains, sharing a lot with Royad that suggests they’ve talked this through even when I’ve successfully been avoiding the topic. “The lake room has been closed for over a hundred years. It opened for you the first time you laid a hand on the door, and it opened for you again despite the magical wards I placed on it after it nearly drowned you.”
A shudder runs through me at the memory of being dragged under by the masses of water that shouldn’t fit into a palace bathing room yet somehow do.
“What are you saying?” I need to hear it spelled out so I don’t feel like I’m going crazy.
To my surprise, it’s Royad who brings the answer. “I’ve spent half of my days with you since the moment I picked you up at the prison,” he says with a grimace that I mirror at the mention of our beginnings.
“Don’t remind me.” I shake my head at him, and he nods in response, the understanding between us that of two people who have been through the worst even when it’s barely two months since we met. Even when he was the one exchanging one cage for another.
A tentative smile spreads on his face, and I can’t help noticing how genuine, how serious that gesture is. Royad isn’t as cheerful and joking as Ephegos used to be, but he’s warm in a different way. He is loyal and caring, a silent, observant presence, Myron’s right hand. His moral support and confidant.
