Long before sunrise, Clía met Ronan in the hall. The project she had been working on with Sárait was complete: her original dress pattern, transformed into a deceptively simple tunic, to be worn under armor or clothes. The shimmering Draoi-blessed fabric felt like air against her skin.
She wished Sárait had been able to see the completed project, but the seamstress had left the castle along with everyone else who wouldn’t be fighting. They would be awaiting word in a village not too far from Caisleán. Watching Sárait leave so soon after getting her back had pained Clía, but she preferred it to the alternative. She felt better knowing her friend was safe.
Ronan waited for her in his armor, silver and gleaming in the lantern light. His sword stayed on his hip. In her sleepless state, she could almost believe they were headed out into the arena for training. But the memories and fears of the past week were persistent enough to remind her of the truth.
Distrust smothered the halls the warriors walked through.Loyalty was a fragile thing. It was as though the castle was on the edge of a precipice.
And the silence between Clía and Ronan was suffocating.
Everything between them was delicate and uncharted. A fragile portrait on glass.
They had held back for so long, only giving in after acknowledging it couldn’t last. She was in love with him, and finally she was letting herself believe that he might love her back, but circumstances hadn’t changed. If they survived this battle, she’d have to return to Álainndore immediately. Would she ever see him again?
She glanced up at him, but it was too late to speak. He was already passing through the door. They were the last to arrive.
Draoi Griffin stood in Kordislaen’s usual spot. “Let’s skip pleasantries. Lookouts have spotted troops bearing flags of Tinelann marching toward us. It seems that Ó Faoláin was correct. We assume they’ll arrive by dawn. They’ve lost the element of surprise, and they know it. We believe they’ll want to be swift in their attack and overwhelm us the moment they arrive.” He was a picture of calm and precision, despite the dark bags under his eyes and the way his shoulders sagged.
The other people in the room looked tense. Everyone had hoped the battle would hold off until nightfall; even a few extra hours of preparation could save lives.
Niamh and Kían exchanged mirrored looks of concern. Domhnall shook his head. The only people not visibly disturbed were Ronan and the other two leaders of Caisleán. This wasn’t news to them—either they’d heard directly from the lookouts or Griffin must have warned them.
“What do we do, sir?” Niamh asked, ever the dutiful soldier.
“We prepare for battle,” Griffin said. “We have well-trained warriors and troops of our own that we will station in the necessary locations. Morrigan and Horgan—you’ll be in command of the newest curadhs. You’ve trained with them, so I imagine you’ll be able to lead them well. Captain Ó Faoláin, as you know, we have holes in our ranks from some of the spies we managed to root out last night. I’ve managed to work out our numbers, but I’ll need you to lead a troop of the more seasoned soldiers. I trust you can handle this task.”
“Yes, sir,” Ronan responded.
“Good. All three of you—speak with Duinn for the details of your assignments. As for you two”—Griffin’s gaze moved between Clía and Domhnall—“you’ll need to follow me. I knew you wouldn’t be willing to leave with the staff, and it’s too late to send you on your way now. The best we can hope for is a secured room to keep you in.”
Clía stepped in front of Griffin as he began to walk to the door. “What are you talking about?”
“You two are the heirs to your respective thrones. We cannot afford you getting hurt.”
She remained firm in her spot as he tried to sidestep her. “I won’t abandon my friends.”
“You don’t have a choice. This isn’t a game,” Griffin hissed. “This isn’t a hypothetical you discuss in class, or a sparring match in the arena. This is life-and-death, andyourlives must be protected.”
“But—”
“Don’t take this personally, Your Highness,” he said, cuttingher off. “This isn’t a comment on your ability, or your worth as a person. It’s logistics. If a Tinelannian soldier finds you or Prince Domhnall, they will try to capture you to use as ransom against your kingdom. There’s no happy ending to that story. You could also get killed in the crossfire. Then not only will there be a war against Tinelann, but Álainndore may decide to seek vengeance against us for not protecting you. I must look out for what’s in the best interest of Inismian.”
She looked to her friends for backup. Ronan, Niamh, and Kían stood waiting, willing to argue on her behalf, but Domhnall was resigned.
“Let’s not waste more time,” he whispered.
A wasted moment would be paid for by the warriors on the field.
Her head jerked in a subtle nod, and she let Griffin lead her away.
***
CLÍA ANDDOMHNALL WERE BROUGHT TO A CRAMPED ANDdusty closet in a faraway corner of the second floor of the castle, hidden behind a rickety wooden door.
The three of them barely fit inside together. Wooden racks lined two of the three walls, covered in sacks of grain and unlabeled boxes. Griffin walked to the bare wall, rested his hand on one of the cobblestones, and gently leaned against it. The stone slid inward, and the entire wall pivoted, revealing a small room. He gestured for Clía and Domhnall to enter.
The hidden room was only slightly larger than the closet; it made her bedroom at Caisleán feel practically royal. A smalllantern was lit in the corner, casting shadows on the walls. Before Clía could ask any questions about it, the wall closed behind them, and she and Domhnall were left alone with the dust.
There were no windows in this makeshift cell, only more shelves full of old food stores. They were locked in a secret storage room.
