She couldn’t lose now. She had made so much progress, had unmasked a potential she never knew she had. The idea of it being taken from her stole the breath from her lungs. Sheneededto stay.
This wasn’t about Domhnall. Or proving herself to anyone. It was about her.
Luckily, no one would be sent home until after breakfast. Kordislaen had some mercy, thank the gods.
Clía made her way through the halls alone. Fall had swept through the castle with force, winter close at its heels. Cool wind blew through the open windows of the great hall and filteredthroughout the castle. She trailed her fingers along the cold, coarse stone walls, when she noticed the footsteps behind her.
Ronan greeted her with a tight smile. “Are you ready for breakfast, Princess?”
She matched his smile and walked with him to the mess hall. They didn’t talk while they ate, but neither did any of the other warriors in training. They all sat in anxious anticipation, eager to see who would be chosen and who would be dismissed.
A group was already forming by the fireplace by the time they returned to the dalta library. Domhnall and Niamh had found spots on the couch, where they waited attentively, while Kían leaned against a bookshelf as if there was nothing to worry about.
Everyone faced Kordislaen, who stood beside the crackling fire. Clía wondered if it might melt his icy demeanor.
She and Ronan stayed back by Kían. Kordislaen watched them take their places before continuing to scan the rest of the daltas in the room.
After the last people filed in, he spoke. “The threat of Tinelann and Ionróir grows every day, and because of that, we will not be continuing your year of training as planned. Caisleán is needed as a keep, to play its role in this war as it has in the battles of times before. We can’t waste precious resources on daltas who aren’t up to the challenge. When I call your name, return to your room and pack your bags. Carriages will be waiting out front.
“If I do not call your name, it’s because you have proven yourself an asset. You will have a choice: you may go home, with those who are dismissed—I won’t blame you for it—or you maystay and take up arms at the keep. I’ll be continuing your training, but in return, you’re expected to dedicate your service to Caisleán. If you stay, you will be officially granted the title of curadh, a champion of Ríoghain. You’ll be tasked with maintaining the peace at this time of crisis. Understand?”
A wave of assent filled the room.
“Good. Now, the list of those going home.” He scanned the crowd once more. “Brendan Moore,” he began. A dark-headed boy across the room looked up, pain clear on his every feature. He left quickly. “Teafa Quinn.”
Clía’s eyes shot to the girl. She stood beside Kían and MacCraith, fists clenched tight by her side as she turned to leave. They shared the arena every morning, but never a conversation. Still, she was a dedicated and strong warrior. If she was dismissed, Clía’s name would surely be called as well.
Kordislaen continued through his list, and with every name, the red-hot fear coiled in Clía’s gut twisted. By the twelfth name, she found herself trying not to flinch at the sound of his voice. She almost did, when suddenly she felt something warm touch her fingers. Ronan’s hand wrapped around hers in a reassuring squeeze. Her stomach tightened, but not with worry.
He sent her a soft smile. This was everything he had worked toward—his life’s dream—but here he was comfortingher. His future, his hopes—they were all tied to these stone walls. He should be solely focused on Kordislaen, yet in that moment, he was looking after her as well.
She squeezed his hand back.
If she were to be sent home, she would hate saying goodbye to him the most.
The crowd in the room kept thinning. People Clía had seen in training sessions, whom she exchanged pleasantries with over meals, were suddenly out of the room and out of her life.
Soon, their numbers fell from over thirty to only a dozen.
Kordislaen folded his hands in front of him. “You all may remain,” he said.
Clía nearly dropped Ronan’s hand in shock.
She hadn’t been sent home.
She was good enough.
She wanted to shout. To leap up and down. To pull Ronan closer. Her joy was something uncontainable—it couldn’t fit inside of her.
Before she could act on the intoxicating feeling, Kordislaen continued talking. “You have been chosen because of your dedication, skill, and progress. If you decide to stay and accept your title, you’ll be expected to continue training. And by the time you leave here, you will have reputation and prowess beyond any other. However, remaining here comes with great risk. We are entering wartimes. I cannot promise safety, but that’s not what you’re here for, is it? You’re all warriors, brave and fierce. I’m sure you will make the right decision.”
With that, he left.
Noise filled the room in his wake. A dozen voices rising in a chorus of celebration.
The sound would be jarring if not for the thoughts holding her in place.
She wouldn’t be leaving.
