“You don’t know if you’ve actually lost her,” Ronan offered. “Although, some warning might have softened the blow. Even I wasn’t aware your father had changed his mind, nor of the doubts you held.” It was a statement but also a question. Domhnall never kept things from him, and Ronan had never heard a hint of doubt about Princess Clíodhna from him before.
“You never seemed to think it was a good match. Maybe I didn’t want to prove you right,” Domhnall replied, but his excuse felt off. Hollow. There was something he wasn’t saying.
Ronan wanted to inquire further, to figure out what Domhnall was keeping close to his chest, but his friend’s eyes were tired. Now wasn’t the time to push.
Instead, he settled for a half-hearted attempt at comfort. “I’m sure, with time, she’ll forgive you.”
“You’re a bad liar.” Domhnall’s head fell. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
That, Ronan believed. Unfortunately, it didn’t make a difference.
“But you did. And now you’ll have to live with it.” There was a pause. “Everything you said—about Scáilca needing a warrior queen because of what’s coming—did you mean it?”
Of course, Ronan had felt the blades of the Ionróirans earlier that day. But for Domhnall to bethisconcerned—
“We’ve known Tinelann and Ionróir are growing threats. But if the Ionróirans attacked us—me—they’re feeling brave. Far braver than before, and perhaps bold enough to launch a true invasion. I imagine only an alliance with Tinelann could be the cause of this newfound courage.”
Ronan considered this possibility. “So war is on the horizon.”
“And I intend for us to survive it.”
***
RONAN EXPECTED MORE NOISE AS HE TRAVELED THROUGHthe halls of the Bailetara castle. When people spoke of Scáilca’s ally to the east, the stories centered their dancing and music, their loud fashions and love of celebrations and gaiety. Yet their halls were as quiet as those in Suanriogh.
As he made his way to the war room, he was left with nothing but his thoughts. Thoughts that kept going back to Caisleán Cósta.
After years of relentless training, of pushing himself and taking every opportunity afforded to him, he would get his chance to receive training beside his friend and to finally see Kordislaen again.
It had been nearly ten years since Ronan had last seen the general. Ten years since the worst day of his life. His mind replayed that day every night as he drifted to sleep. If only he had been stronger, braver, smarter, maybe he could have saved his mother.
In his dreams, he could still feel the sunlight blinding him as he rushed to find a place to hide, following her instructions. He remembered his legs not moving fast enough under him and an invading Ionróiran grabbing him by the shoulder. He recalled his mother, sharp edges and determined mind, as she fought to save him. She was a warrior.
He could still see the heavy blade cutting her down and the blood that flowed, staining his shoes, his hem, his heart.
He didn’t cry then. He only stared in shock. How could such a stubborn force be struck down by a stranger’s axe? How could he, in one still moment, lose a part of his family, a part of himself?
How could he go on?
Somehow he did.
He’d pulled out of the distracted Ionróiran’s grip and reached for his mother’s sword. He swung. The man who killed his mother fell without elegance or ceremony. Then Ronan also collapsed, too tired to stand. With his last bit of energy, he brushed his mother’s hair out of her face.
He may not have cried, but he broke. The pain in his heart traveled to his hands, his legs, his ankles. He wouldn’t feel it immediately, but it would come, and it would never truly go away.
But in that moment, he didn’t feel anything. Not even as the man who had grabbed him stepped closer, weapon drawn. He felt nothing as the sword started crashing toward him. He felt nothing as another blade met it, inches from his chest.
Kordislaen saved him that day. He saw a boy take down a grown man and made sure that boy survived the battle. The general saw promise in him, at only ten years old, and insisted that this child from a small village receive the best possible training. He placed Ronan in the palace to learn and encouraged him to follow the path set out for him. Ronan joined the royal guard the moment he was of age.
He hadn’t seen Kordislaen again after that, but occasionally a gift would appear from him. Swords and armor and books. Every so often, there would be a letter. They were always shortand never personal, usually including advice or instructions. Whenever Ronan received one, he knew it was because he was doing something right.
Ronan practiced until his hands bled and studied until his head ached. Until he was in so much pain, he couldn’t get out of bed for days. But he kept pushing.
Kordislaen saved his life and built his future. And Ronan was going to prove to him that he had been a worthy investment.
A body colliding into him pulled Ronan from his thoughts. Without thinking, his hands shot out to steady the person. “My apologies.”
Princess Clíodhna looked up at him. Her eyes were faintly red, but her expression was serene. His hands dropped.
