Her heart plunged.
“Are you done praying?” A soft smile graced Niamh’s face. She stood in a ready position, knees slightly bent, sword raised.
“I’m not going to fight you,” Clía said. Her sword was heavy in her hands. She hadn’t come here to hurt anyone; she had come to learn and to prove herself. She thought she would develop skills using practice weapons, not participate in immediate duels with sharpened steel. Now she was realizing how shortsighted she had been. She flushed at her own naivety.
“Oh, please, is theprincessscared? Don’t ruin this for me.” Niamh tilted her head, her dark hair falling to the side.
Then she lunged.
Instinct took over as Clía dove out of the way. The hem of herdress tore as she stumbled over it getting back to her feet. Her sword was discarded in the dirt behind Niamh, who turned on her, eyes dancing.
This was what Niamh wanted: the chase. She wanted Clía to try, to attempt to be an opponent worthy of her. After all, how could she show off with no one to fight against?
Niamh blocked the path to Clía’s sword. There was no way she was getting past. Even if she had a weapon, Niamh could crush her in a second. Clía had no training, while Niamh stood as if she was blessed by Ríoghain.
Cold fear sunk into her chest, holding her hostage. Niamh lunged again, and Clía’s reflexes were too slow. She didn’t know how to dodge. The metal bit into her arm.
She cursed, eyes watering. Her hand moved to grip the stinging wound as Niamh glared at her. When she pulled her hand away, crimson coated her palm.
“That was pitiful.” A voice rang out across the arena. Kordislaen approached them. “You dare perform like that? At Caisleán?” Anger was laced through every word.
Clía stayed silent, her face hot with embarrassment.
“Return your sword to the shed. You didn’t even use it during that pathetic display.” He shook his head, and the disgust in his eyes stung more than the anger. All she seemed to do was fail. “Leave my sight immediately, before I decide to punish you for your failure. When you return to training tomorrow, I expect you to at least pretend you’re worthy of the seat you hold.”
Chapter Seven
Wind brushed against Caisleán Cósta’s walls like the howling echoes of the warriors who had fought there in the past.
As Ronan walked through the halls of the ancient castle, he couldn’t help but think of everyone who had been here before him. Rulers, dignitaries, and heroes of legend. At some point, this castle had held them all.
And now it held him.
He waited for something in him to change. Some newfound confidence discovered, an end to the clawing ambition in him.Something.
But he felt no different from the day before.
All he could think of was what to donext. That need to prove himself at Caisleán.
Rumors of the unrelenting and unforgiving nature of Caisleán Cósta filled every training ground he’d walked on. But he didn’t care. It wouldn’t matter if every night he found himself crashing into bed, desperate for sleep. If he woke up with crushing pain in his limbs. All that mattered was that he’d made it.
He might never be rid of the pain, the nightmares, the part of his life he desperately kept hidden from the world. Yet his soulseemed to settle in his chest at the knowledge that it didn’t and wouldn’t hold him back.
Ronan walked into the room that would become their classroom. It was large, with enough rows of benches to seat the few dozen dalta attending this year. He immediately spotted Princess Clíodhna, sitting in the front beside a group of warriors but remaining separate. The dress that had torn during her trial was missing the hem, the ripped fabric now wrapped around her arm, binding her wound. The afternoon sun cascaded through the windows, giving her hair a glowing halo, and despite the blood and dirt on her face, she was smiling as one of the warriors turned to speak to her.
Ronan found Domhnall sitting in the back next to Niamh Morrigan. He took the seat beside them, but before either of them could speak, Draoi Griffin entered the room.
“You are here to learn the way of Ríoghain. The way of war.” The room fell silent at the sound of his voice, soft but sure. “A warrior isn’t forged through sparring alone. In order to become a true soldier, you must study the history of warfare and battle. You must understand the calculations that are made before a sword is even drawn.”
The Draoi spoke for a couple of hours, laying the groundwork for the lessons to come, and Ronan listened diligently. He had studied on his own, during his time at the palace, but direct lessons from a Draoi were hard to come by. He wouldn’t waste this.
Draoi Griffin was a talented speaker, making Ronan wonder what had brought him to Caisleán Cósta. The order of theDraoi welcomed anyone who wanted to dedicate their lives to the Treibh Anam and the continent, and as a result, there were Draoi scattered across Inismian. Some resided in one of the five Draoi-run institutes, such as Caisleán Cósta, dedicated to preserving the path of their patron god; some stayed in court with the nobility, advising the leaders of Inismian; a few lived amid the rest of the people, caring for the land directly.
While some Draoi knew what path they wanted to follow when they joined, some went where they were needed most. Which group did Draoi Griffin belong to? Had he always dreamed of being at Caisleán Cósta, like Ronan?
“I believe that’s enough for today. I’ll give you some time to settle in. We’ll continue our discussions tomorrow.”
Dismissed, Ronan and Domhnall filtered out of the room, trailing behind the rest of the class.
