Leaning closer to the fabric, Clía examined the weave. “I might have a solution to that problem. I have more than my fair share of specialty needles at home, and I think I know just the one that could work on this fabric. I picked it up on a trip to Oileánster a few years ago—it should be thin enough, and it was blessed by a Draoi. A Stormweaver fabric requires a Stormweaver needle. I’ll write and ask for it to be sent here.”
“I know the fabric is unique—it’s why I bought it. But why go to all this effort for it?” Sárait asked.
Clía pulled her dagger from its sheath. Holding the fabric in place with one hand, she swung with the other.
“What are you doing?” Sárait exclaimed, grabbing the dagger from her hand. “I swear, one day I’m going to hide all of your knives.”
Clía held the fabric up, letting the light reflect off it. Where the dagger had struck, it was perfectly intact. Not a single mark marred it.
“I might have a use for this.”
***
CLÍA SPENT THE LITTLE FREE TIME SHE HAD WITHSÁRAITplanning and designing. Ronan had clearly been curious about what she was up to, but she refused to elaborate, not wanting to ruin the surprise. Thankfully, he didn’t press her.
He did, however, still wake her before dawn to continue their training regimen. Despite earning her spot, he had made her promise to continue to meet with him in their spare time, so they could be better prepared for what Kordislaen threw at them. Sárait often joined them, still trying to catch Kían’s eye, as the dalta had also resumed their training with MacCraith. And they didn’t stop on the field. Clía and Ronan spent hours in the library furthering their studies.
It was during one of those evenings, five days after Kordislaen dismissed the other warriors, that Domhnall walked into the room.
Clía was lying on the couch with a history book open beside her, her feet resting on Ronan’s lap. He didn’t object when she placed them there, claiming a chill. Instead, he tossed a soft blanket over her without a word.
“I’m glad I found you here, Clíodhna,” Domhnall began. “I have some news, and I wished to speak with you.”
She didn’t bother to get up. “Then tell me.”
Domhnall approached, exchanging a meaningful look with Ronan. If he was requesting a moment alone, Ronan didn’t seem to care. He leaned back in his seat, lifting a brow. Domhnall’s eyes traveled to Clía, caught for an extra second on where Ronan’s fingers rested against her ankle.
Whether Domhnall wanted to be alone for her sake or his,she wasn’t sure, but she didn’t have the patience for his games. “Well? From your tone, it sounded rather exciting. Do share.”
He took a deep breath, letting his princely facade fall over him. “I received a letter from my father. He is approving my betrothal with Niamh.”
Clía held her breath, waiting for the pain to rupture in her chest. Her fingers clutched her book tightly—but the stabbing hurt never came. A dull ache did burn in her, but as she remembered to let the air out of her lungs, she realized that was more likely the culprit than any heartbreak.
Domhnall’s engagement was official. She wouldn’t win him over. She would never marry him.
And she felt nothing.
No, that wasn’t true.
There was no pang of sadness, or fear or stress. She wasn’t wallowing in self-pity or letting self-doubt eat away at the joy in her heart, as it had been doing since he first left her. No, that joy seemed to glow brighter now than it had months ago.
She was okay.
She was more than okay. She was content.
Her parents would be disappointed, and while that thought did set her heart racing, it didn’t knock away her breath. She would survive it.
She gave Domhnall her princess smile, the one she used on any other noble or high-ranking member of her court whom she wished to befriend. She didn’t move from her relaxed position—she was far too comfortable for that—but over her comfort, she wore the charisma of a royal.
“I’m immensely happy for you both. Congratulations.”
Domhnall nodded, and she watched him try to mask his confusion.
Despite everything, she meant it. Perhaps notimmensely—that would require her to care a little more than she did—but shewashappy. A future with Domhnall was out of the question. She didn’t have to fight for it anymore. She didn’t need to pretend to be someone she wasn’t in order to secure a dream she wasn’t sure was hers to begin with.
There would be repercussions, eventually. However, her parents had already resigned themselves to finding another way to earn the favor of the Draoi before she’d left for Caisleán Cósta. They had been considering different potential marriage alliances when she met them in the garrán. Perhaps it wouldn’t be horrible, returning empty-handed. She had traveled to Caisleán, fought monsters and men—she would find a way to protect her kingdom.
Ronan’s hands softly caressed the small patch of skin on her ankle that peeked out from beneath the blanket. His callouses were rough, but she didn’t mind. It reminded her of the mornings they spent earning them.
