His mind had been an unforgiving prison the past few days. Their kiss, seeing Sárait’s fallen form on the cold ground, trying to understand Kordislaen... He’d had very little time for sleep. Something his body insisted reminding him of: his knee throbbed with pain as he stood.
He needed a distraction.
“I was hoping you were as restless as I was,” he began.
Her mouth softened from its tight line, and he felt like he could breathe again. “I am.”
“Want to get in some training?” He nodded toward the door.
“It’s dark out. I’m not sure that’s the safest idea.”
“We’ll bring some lanterns. Not to mention—it’s good to practice fighting in less-than-ideal situations. You won’t always be dueling at dawn.”
She grabbed Camhaoir.
He hadn’t planned on training again today—he knew his body would make him regret it. He wasn’t sure why he’d suggested it. Perhaps to keep himself busy. Or maybe because it was all he knew, and when Clía said she was feeling restless as well, the answer seemed too obvious.
The arena was empty when they arrived, their lanterns offering little illumination in the night. As they warmed up, the familiar ache of his muscles was pain and relief. A much-needed distraction. The routine fell over him all at once, removing any time for thinking.
They defaulted to their unique rhythm. He lunged and she defended. They parried blow for blow. One of them would misstep, the other would try to hold the advantage, but quickly they would be evenly matched again. Except, tonight, she was faster than usual. Her blocks in position right on time, her strikes heavy with strength.
He was the more experienced swordsman, and most days, she would be able to edge him out only through surprise and risk. But in the glow of the stars, she was radiant. Luminous. Her skills beyond what he had seen from her before.
That didn’t stop him from trying. He fought harder and harder, ignoring the screaming of his muscles. After a second loss, he managed to gain the advantage. With a twist of his wrist, her blade was on the ground, and he had her yield with a sword to her temple. But any chance to boast was quickly lost when she won the next round.
“Unfair.” He smiled as her sword kissed the nape of his neck. “I demand a rematch.”
She laughed, and they began again. Despite his attempts, he couldn’t hide the elation he felt every time she bested him.
After four matches—three won by her, and only the one by him—they decided to switch out their longswords for lighter blades. But after another two rounds, Ronan started picking up on her weariness. She missed an easy opportunity to overpower him, a sloppy mistake that gave him the advantage.
“Do you need a break?” he asked.
“No, let’s go again.” She raised her blade, but he pushed it down.
“If you grind yourself into dust tonight, you’ll be swept away by the breeze come morning. You shouldn’t push yourself too hard, not the night before the mission.” Ronan hoped she would agree and retire her weapon, but instead she tried to shove past him. An attempt he prevented by grabbing her shoulder.
Her eyes blazed in the lantern light, defiant. “You’re the one who suggested training tonight.”
“Because we both needed the distraction. But we also need to know when to stop.”
Clía’s blade fell to the ground, but instead of letting her go, he wrapped his hands around hers, pulling her close. “I know you’reupset, and probably nervous about our mission. So am I. But you can’t overwork yourself. I won’t let you make stupid decisions and get yourself killed.”
He tried to keep his tone light, but there was desperation underneath it. Real danger lay before them, and he didn’t know what he would do if something happened to her.
“What about you?” Clía stepped back, pulling her hands from his. “You tell me not to overwork myself, but do you think I don’t see the way you’ve been favoring your left leg all night?”
Ronan bristled. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” She crossed her arms.
“I’ve been dealing with this for half of my life. If I shut down every time I was in pain, I wouldn’t be here today.” He shook his head. If he let his pain rule his life, how could he ever be enough? For Caisleán? For Kordislaen? For Clía? “I wouldn’t be able to do anything.”
She took a deep breath, any anger seemingly forgotten as she approached him once more, taking his hands in hers. “That doesn’t mean you always have to do everything.”
He wanted to deny it. To argue and insist that no, he did need to do everything. The need to not only be as good as everyone else, butbetter, had built itself a home in his mind, and he couldn’t root it out.
But maybe he should try.
