“And you? What are you fighting for?”
Any anger or annoyance was gone from her face as she looked up at him expectantly. Meanwhile, he was stumbling over the surprising turn in conversation. He had thought she would argue, defend herself, or tell him it wasn’t his place to be lecturing her. However, she insisted on never doing as he expected.
He had told the story only once, years ago, to Domhnall as they lay on the cold dirt and watched the stars. He had moved on; there was no point in living in the past. But here, in this quiet study, surrounded by old stories, with her bright presence beside him, he felt, suddenly, that he wanted to tell her.
“My mother.” He kept his voice steady, his breathing even. Against his will, his fist closed over his aching wrist.
“You mentioned she had passed,” Clía whispered, the sound a wisp of smoke from fading candlelight. “What happened?”
“She was killed by Ionróirans. Calafort, my home, is a coastal village; we had seen more than our share of attacks. It was during one of their invasions that they killed her, right in front of me. I only made it out alive because Kordislaen was there.”
“I’m so sorry.”
His eyes met hers without his permission, the soft shades of green and gold grounding him. “Thank you.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her the rest—his failure that day, the pain that followed, the ambitions that kept him up at night. Instead, he thought of his parents, and the life they used to have. “She was a fierce warrior, but when there was no one to fight, she would grow the most beautiful flowers. It’s how she met my father.
“Each time the Ionróirans would come and leave destruction in their wake, my parents would pull me into the garden. There,they would show me the firecress, with its pink and gold petals that burned like flames in the midday sun. A beauty that could only bloom with the nourishment of ashes. After she died, my father continued to run their shop. It keeps a roof over his head and lets him provide for the village what the local apothecary won’t.
“Growing up, he taught me how to make a garden flourish, but it was my mother who taught me how to wield a sword.” Ronan’s hand drifted toward the sheath on his belt. The feeling of its cold leather against his palm was a comfort. “She wanted me to know how to protect myself. I trained with her ever since I could hold a weapon, and after she passed, Kordislaen made sure I was given the chance to train at the palace.”
“Do you see your father often?” she asked.
“I’m afraid the prince keeps me busy, but I write to him, when I can.” With a surge of guilt, he thought of the letter from his father that sat unopened in his room—it had arrived when they were on their quest. A part of him was hesitant to open it, to know the stress he’d caused his only family. “It bothers him, knowing I’m following in my mother’s footsteps down the same path that killed her. But he understands why I have to do it. After all, my job allows me to send enough back to help him care for the village. Provide for those who lost loved ones.”
It had been years since he walked the winding paths of Calafort himself. He didn’t know if it was cowardly or brave, running away at the first opportunity and never looking back. It would always be his home, but he couldn’t bear the ghosts.
“Caring for an entire village shouldn’t fall on you and your father. Surely the king is willing to help.”
“Calafort is only one village out of hundreds. As Ionróiran attacks grow more common, King Cathal is overwhelmed by a demand for aid and protection that keeps growing. And even our closest allies can’t be counted on for help.” He sent a pointed look to her, and instead of shrinking back, she only looked confused.
“I’m sure Álainndore—”
Ronan cut her off. “Álainndore has denied every request we send.”
“I didn’t—I’m sorry. I don’t always agree with my parents’ decisions,” she admitted. “And I realize that there is much I ignored in the past. But I’m fighting for Álainndore now, and I’ll fight for Scáilca too. When I return home, I’ll try to convince them to change their minds on sending aid.”
In the past, he had seen Clía as a willing participant in her parents’ negligence. Perhaps she had contributed, but her genuine desire to fix her parents’ wrongs surprised him. She was nothing like he had imagined her to be, and each reveal made him want to uncover more.
“I appreciate it,” he finally said. “Although I doubt Calafort will see any of what’s sent. We’re too small. My promotion to captain of Domhnall’s guard, and the raise that came with it, has thankfully made some difference. If all goes well, Kordislaen will see my potential and might help me rise through the ranks even faster. I might even make general myself. Then I can bring home more money for them.”
“I’m sure your father appreciates your help.”
A wry smile spread across Ronan’s face. “He hates it. He insists that he’s fine and the village can take care of itself—and hemight be right—but I think he says it because he would prefer I stayed home with him.”
“Ah, stubborn and self-reliant. He reminds me of someone I know.” Clía nudged her shoulder against his, and he couldn’t stop a small laugh from escaping. A true smile bloomed on her face, brightening the room.
He enjoyed the view for a moment, as the soft melody of the musicians at the banquet drifted into the room.
Before he could think twice of it, Ronan stood and reached his hand out toward her. “Dance with me?”
Her hand hovered over his, close enough that he could feel its heat on his palm. “Here?” she said softly. “Why?”
His fingers closed around hers, pulling her up. He could feel his lips curl into a smile, and he didn’t bother to hide it. “Because it’ll be fun.”
He knew he’d won when she curled her other hand around his neck, pressing them closer together. “Just one dance.”
The sudden warmth of her body so near to his stole his focus.
Then she moved. They twirled in the firelit study, the song fast enough that they never stayed too close for too long. He couldn’t help but feel a little grateful for that. Domhnall had spoken of Clía’s beauty, but Ronan had never had reason to wonder how that beauty might affect him. In the moments when she was pressed against him, he struggled to think, focused only on how the flames in the fireplace made her eyes glow. With each step and sway, he noticed something else about her. The way her hair flowed behind her, the gentle smile on her face, how her eyelashes brushed her cheeks with every blink.
