Every moment in these sessions with him was laced with fear for her. She’d already made of fool of herself once. Another failure would risk her position at Caisleán and continue to prove Domhnall right.
When she decided to leave home to attend Caisleán Cósta, she hadn’t expected to be knocked on her ass in her first class in front of everyone. She hadn’t expected the bloody calluses she would find on her palms with every new day.
She hadn’t expected to find Domhnall on the way to the altar.
A few short training sessions in the stolen hours before dawn with Ronan weren’t enough to make her a warrior. Surviving Caisleán Cósta with her reputation intact—the bare minimum if she wanted Domhnall back—required a strategy.
In classes, she had focused on listening while drawing no attention to herself. In these training sessions, she stayed in the back of the group, watching from a distance as General Kordislaen demonstrated maneuvers she could never imagine herself doing. When her arms burned from push-ups, she didn’t complain. Sweat poured down her brow, and tremors rocked her arms, but she gritted her teeth and lifted herself up once more. If Kordislaen barked insults at her as she struggled, she tuned him out, listening only to the sound of the wind.
Every training session ended with laps around the arena. Clía lagged behind but resolutely kept moving. The other daltas smirked at her as they passed her for the third time. She refused to acknowledge them, instead narrowing her focus onto the feeling of the hard dirt meeting her feet. She may never be the best, but that could be forgiven as long as she didn’tstop.
As she ran, it took every bit of restraint inside her not to seek out Domhnall. To find familiarity in the chaos. Another masochistic part of her wanted to look at Niamh. She wanted to see if the girl was surprised by the fact that Clía was still trying. Maybe Niamh hadn’t intended to humiliate her on that firstday—Clía tried not to assume the worst of people she barely knew—but her pride and reputation hadn’t healed yet.
But as her final lap ended, and she collapsed into a seat at the edge of the arena, she found herself looking for Ronan. She was improving—she’d felt surprisingly comfortable during today’s sword drills—and she wondered if he noticed.
Except Ronan wasn’t with the mass of daltas walking out of the arena. He stayed in the back, speaking with Kordislaen.
She knew Kordislaen couldn’t be criticizing him; Ronan was one of the best warriors here. However, the idea of Kordislaen praising someone seemed equally impossible. The general didn’t know what positivity was. Clía was convinced that the cloudy weather of late was the sun hiding from him.
Ronan left their conversation standing tall; his usual serious demeanor had been replaced with the softest hint of a smile.
She met him halfway across the emptying arena.
“What did Kordislaen have to say?” Curiosity bled into her voice, and she didn’t bother to hide it. After spending those early mornings training together during their quest, there was a tentative understanding growing between them. Or maybe the training had nothing to do with it—perhaps there was just something about Ronan that made her feel at ease.
“Ó Dálaigh’s review of our quest. He wanted to commend me on my leadership.” As he spoke, Clía could see the general’s words were only just sinking in. Ronan’s eyes widened with disbelief, and his warm smile grew larger. Something in her chest fluttered. “General Kordislaen said he sees something in me. That I have potential.”
His joy was contagious, and she found herself matching hisgrin. “I could have told you that. You’re an amazing warrior. I wouldn’t be surprised if he offered you a permanent position here.”
Ronan shook his head. “Don’t even joke about that. I could only dream of that honor.”
“You were meant for this. You have a rare talent, and Kordislaen would be an idiot if he didn’t see that. There’s a reason you’re here.”
“Thank you.” The words were heavy with a meaning she couldn’t decipher.
She smiled again in response and began to lead him outside the training center—afraid he would hurt himself in his pride-induced daze—when Niamh stepped in her path.
“Clía, I had hoped to run into you,” she said, her voice nonchalant. Her gaze fell to Ronan, turning sharp with dismissal.
Ronan rested his hand on Clía’s upper arm, and her senses seemed to home in on that small point of contact. “I’ll see you at our afternoon class?” he said, staring intently at her. He was waiting to see if she wanted him to go, she realized.
She nodded, and he slowly turned back to the castle. Reluctantly, she thought.
Returning her attention to Niamh, Clía slipped her courtly mask back on. NiamhwasScáilcan nobility, after all. “It’s good to see you, Niamh. I’m sorry that we barely had time to speak during our quest to the Ghostwood. I feel as if our only real conversation has been during that first duel.”
“You’re not still upset about that, are you?” Niamh tilted her head.
“I’m not upset at all. I mean, my arm wishes you went alittle easier on me”—Clía’s hand rose to touch the faint scar that Niamh had left behind—“what with all the blood and everything, but I understand.” And she did understand.
Just because Kordislaen pitted all the daltas against one another didn’t mean they couldn’t forge some type of friendship. Clía had been thrust into an environment she had no idea how to handle. She could always use another ally. A friend.
Niamh’s mouth remained a tense line. “Good, because if you were upset, I would have to urge you to remember where you are and how things work here.”
“I see.” There went Clía’s plans for them to have breakfast together tomorrow. “What was it that you wished to speak to me about?”
“I didn’t get the chance to thank you. For what you did in the Ghostwood.” Niamh looked almost pained by the statement.
“You would have done the same,” Clía replied.
