The casual mention of life-and-death moments made her realize she was getting a glimpse into a world she’d only heard about in stories. These men had fought together, bled together, saved each other’s lives in ways that created bonds stronger than blood.
“You threw it?” she asked.
“Nay, Tristan did. Finest blade-arm I’ve ever seen, though he’s modest about it.”
Hugo’s grin was fierce with pride and memory. “Course, I taught him everything he knows about throwing, so I suppose I can claim some credit for keeping him breathing.”
The knives were beautiful in the way that weapons could be—perfectly balanced, deadly sharp, with hilts worn smooth by countless hands. They felt alien and dangerous in her palms, heavier than she’d expected, with an edge that seemed to thirst for something to cut. The scent of oiled steel mixed with leather wrappings filled her nostrils.
“Now then,” Hugo said, positioning her in front of a target that had clearly seen better days—probably around the time of the Norman Conquest, judging by the number of holes and scars decorating its surface. “Feet shoulder-width apart, blade held like so, and remember—’tis all in the wrist and the follow-through.”
What followed was a masterclass in how not to throw sharp objects.
Rachel’s first attempt went wide by approximately three feet, hitting the stone wall with a sound like a very expensive mistake. Her second attempt went high, sailing over the target entirely and disappearing into the bushes where it would probably claim some innocent rabbit as an unintended victim.
“Bloody hell,” came a voice from the castle walls, where several guardsmen had gathered to watch the entertainment. “Nearly took out Father Clement’s chapel window!”
“My gran could throw better than that, and she’s been dead these five years!” another guard added with cheerful appreciation.
But Hugo remained patient, his coaching steady and encouraging. “You’re thinking too much,” he said calmly, retrieving the wayward blades with practiced efficiency. “Trust your instincts. Feel the weight of the blade, judge the distance, let your body find the rhythm.”
Her third attempt was even worse, spinning wildly through the air before embedding itself in a wooden post at a ninety-degree angle from her intended target.
“Saints preserve us!” Hugo bellowed, throwing himself to the ground as the knife spun past his head with malicious precision. “That was... creative!”
“Oh no,” she gasped, watching the blade quiver in the wood like an accusation. “I’m so sorry! I don’t know what happened! It just... flew!”
“At least it missed the important bits,” came a cheerful voice from the walls. “Though Hugo looked ready to meet his maker for a moment there!”
But instead of frustration or condescension, Hugo hauled himself up with a grin that spoke of genuine amusement rather than mockery. “Well, you’ve certainly made an impression,” he said, brushing dust from his clothes. “The lads will be talking about that throw for months.”
“This is hopeless,” she said, staring at her hands. “I’m going to kill someone. Probably myself, but possibly an innocent bystander. Or livestock. Do you have any idea how bad my reputation would be if I accidentally murdered a cow with poor knife-throwing technique?”
The gathered guardsmen chuckled appreciatively at her dramatic despair, but Hugo’s response was different from what she’d expected. Instead of dismissing her concerns or offering empty reassurance, he moved closer with the focused attention of someone who’d spotted something worth nurturing.
“You know what your problem is?” he asked, his tone shifting to something more serious. “You’re fighting yourself instead of fighting the target. Trying so hard to be perfect that you can’t hear what your body’s trying to tell you.”
He selected another knife, hefting it thoughtfully. “Tristan was the same way when I first taught him. Too much thinking, not enough feeling. Had him throwing for weeks before the lad stopped trying to calculate angles and started trusting his instincts.”
“And that worked?”
“Eventually. Though he still overthinks when he’s nervous.” Hugo’s expression grew thoughtful. “Course, he’s been doing a lot of overthinking lately. About you, mostly.”
The casual observation made her pulse quicken in ways that had nothing to do with knife-throwing techniques. “What do you mean?”
“Means the lad’s been watching you like a hawk watches a mouse, trying to figure out whether you’re a threat or a blessing. Means he’s been pacing his chambers like a caged wolf, muttering about honor and responsibility and other such nonsense.” Hugo’s broken-toothed grin was knowing. “Means he’s smitten and too stubborn to admit it, even to himself.”
“I don’t think?—”
“Let me tell you something about Tristan de Valois,” Hugo interrupted, his voice carrying the authority of long friendship and shared trials.
“I’ve known that lad since he was small enough to hide behind his mother’s skirts. Seen him face down charging cavalry without flinching, watched him hold a breach against impossible odds, witnessed him endure disgrace with his head held high.”
He hefted the knife, testing its balance. “But I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. Like you’re both salvation and damnation wrapped up in one impossible package. Like you might be the answer to questions he’s afraid to ask.”
The words hit her with more force than any thrown blade. “Hugo?—”
“The man’s been carrying guilt around like a stone in his chest for months,” Hugo continued, his expression growing more serious. “Convinced he’s cursed, that everyone he cares about suffers for his affection. But you... you make him laugh. Make him forget, for moments at a time, that he’s supposed to be broken.”
