Before she could find a seat, Kordislaen summoned her from his place beside the chief. Caisleán’s other high-ranking officials were seated with them. She recognized Commander Ó Dálaigh talking with Captain Duinn, an intimidating woman with deep wrinkles in her white skin, and Head Commander Brecc, a rigid-looking man whose dark braids contrasted with his shining silver armor.
When Clía reached their table, she offered them all a polite nod.
The chief appeared to be Kordislaen’s opposite in every way. Where Kordislaen was tall, with cropped, gray-streaked dark hair and his brow permanently creased in disappointment, Lyons was short and golden, his blond hair tied back from his tan face.
“Princess Clía, a pleasure to meet you,” Lyons said, greeting her.
“The pleasure is mine, Chief,” she replied automatically.
Kordislaen watched their exchange with keen eyes. If Lyons noticed, he didn’t reveal it. “Kordislaen was telling me about you—your group’s adventure in the Ghostwood. Surviving both an onchú and the Sluagh is a notable feat. Very impressive for someone with so little training. I look forward to seeing your potential growth at Caisleán.”
“I’m very grateful for the chance to be here. I’ve already learned so much, and I look forward to discovering how I can utilize this new knowledge to help our kingdoms,” she said.
The smile never left Lyons’s face, but there was an indecipherable shift. Clía forced herself to hold his gaze, fighting the urge to look anywhere else. He was testing her, and she would not be found lacking. “Is that so?”
She scrambled to find the right words, but she was out of practice. “Yes. In fact, my friend and I were discussing theIonróirans that were spotted by the Whispering Cliffs, and what it could mean for Caisleán and Scáilca. I had some ideas for—”
“Youhad ideas?” Lyons said, interrupting her.
A coldness seeped into her skin. “Yes—that is—” She took a breath, trying to dispel the thoughts racing in her mind.
Lyons cut her off before she could continue. “Come now, Princess. It’s commendable you want to train here. But it doesn’t give you license to involve yourself in affairs that have nothing to do with you.”
She was speaking before she could stop herself. “Don’t involve me? I’m the princess of Álainndore. It’s my duty to do all I can to protect my kingdom.”
He bristled, as if the mere act of defending herself was an insult to him. “And what protection will you be? A child who can barely wield her own sword?” His voice was empty of all its previous warmth.
Clía stood frozen. She couldn’t think—didn’t know how to resolve the situation before her. In Álainndore, she would never face such open disdain.
“I’ll leave you, then.” She nodded, backing away from the table before he could see the cracks in her mask.
She took the first empty seat she could find—which happened to be beside Niamh and Domhnall. The dalta tables were far enough away from Lyons and Kordislaen that there was hope the two had not heard the exchange over the music.
Offering a small greeting to those around her, she tried to ignore her racing heart. Suddenly, the smells and noise were toomuch. Everything was too much. Her senses were overflowing. The draft was like daggers against her skin and her ribs felt tight in her chest—
Falling apart would help no one, and it certainly wouldn’t save her reputation.
Inhaling, she closed her eyes and recalled what Ronan told her that day on the hill.
What do you hear?
Voices. Chairs dragged on the stone. Knives scraping against plates.
What do you see?
Slowly, she let her eyes drift open. She focused solely on what was right in front of her. The table was decorated with a thin navy cloth and covered with endless plates of food: meats, breads, soups—anything she could want.
She took another breath, noting the way it filled her lungs. The world felt a little quieter now, its sharp edges dulled just enough.
She filled a plate for herself before noticing Niamh’s lips coiled into a smirk beside her. She wore her armor from training, iron freshly shined, and hair braided in a long rope down her back. Domhnall also wore his best armor, fit for a warrior prince. Looking around, Clía realized she was the only one in a gown.
“You look... interesting,” said Niamh. Her cold voice seemed to ring in Clía’s ears.
“Thank you,” Clía replied calmly. “You look great as well.”
Niamh gave her a tight smile before excusing herself to go talk to a dalta at another table.
Domhnall’s gaze followed her. Once she was far enough away, he turned back to Clía. “You do realize we are not in court?”
