I weighed my options. Without Nisien here, I had no one to train with. Our brief exchange—or more accurately, nearly killing him—the previous night had given me some respite from the curse’s effects. Plus, Owain’s magic was strong enough to withstand a few strikes the monster might decide to launch at him. I felt clearheaded enough that I could steer my legs in the opposite direction if that were to happen, anyway.
I said, “Your choice. No magic.”
“Agreed.” Owain weighed the weapon in his palm. “Swords only. Let’s see if you’ve still got that famous footwork.”
We circled each other, feet shuffling across the mud and hay. The rhythm of battle returned to me as easily as breathing. I remembered Owain’s stance—low and coiled like a leopard, ready to pounce, tense muscles barely contained beneath his skin.
Our families had maintained an alliance that had grown over the past twenty-five years, so we had a wealth of history between us. Once, when we were thirteen, new to our magic and brimming with youthful bravado, we’d fought as comrades-in-arms in a mock battle against our brothers. He and I on one side, Nisien and Berian, Owain’s older brother, on the other. We’d turned the castle orchard into a battlefield with stolen swords and wild magic.
We were just boys then, carefree and oblivious to the wider world of politics. I remembered laughter I’d thought would never sour. I missed that version of myself. But he’d died the day the curse settled into my skin.
In the present, Owain struck first. I parried easily then returned a blow that glanced off his side.
“You haven’t slowed.” He grunted.
“Neither have you.”
The fight was clean. Time bled away like water through cupped hands. We exchanged wins, our movements reflecting a mutual respect born of our shared history. Despite the jealousy I was trying to pretend didn’t exist, a stubborn thread of admiration prevented me from disliking him. Even my envy felt wrong when he’d been so willing to admit fault.
I saw no fear in his eyes, even after my dreadful behavior. His unexpected trust was foreign.
Blows landed, our strikes and exertion continued, and somewhere amidst the chaos, a whisper of magic brushed against my awareness.
Isca.
She was near. I could feel her warmth, her aura, soft and open, growing closer. The beast within startled awake at her scent.
A streak of panic shot through me. She hadn’t yet glimpsed the true extent of my scars.
Without thinking, I flung my hand toward the training rack and summoned my shirt with a pulse of magic. It flew to me in a blur of linen. I yanked it over my head just as Owain swept in with a strike I’d been too busy to see coming.
Wood slammed into my ribs with acrack, forcing the air from my lungs. I fell backward onto the ground.
“Gods—Emrys!”
Isca’s voice, high with panic, rang out as her footsteps rushed across the yard. I got halfway to sitting up, but her first touch shattered the illusion of safety I’d built around my solitude. Her hands were on me, steady and warm against my back, rubbing in soothing circles.
“Catrin—get a healer!” she cried, voice ringing with command.
Catrin didn’t move. She knew the inhuman resilience my curse granted me.
For a moment, I tried to draw a breath and failed. My ribs were broken. I knew because it wasn’t the first, or even third, time I’d experienced this pain.
“Emrys, are you all right? Please, say something,” Isca begged.
“Something.” It was a pained rasp, but I’d managed.
“You’re impossible.” She scowled. “You also hesitated in answering!”
“I was debating whether to make you worry more.” I didn’t hold back my smirk since it would cover the fact that I was swallowing blood.
A smile blossomed on her face, just as I’d hoped. She didn’t move away. Isca looked like comfort incarnate—eyes soft, body wrapped in a light blue dress, hair loosely braided. Simply being near her was enough to relax me.
Each pass of her palm sank deeper into my skin than any blade ever could. The curse went silent—no whispers, no claws rattling the cage. The shock of it nearly undid me.
I leaned into her touch without meaning to, like a beast drawn to fire, knowing it might burn but needing the warmth all the same. Starved for the contact, for the comfort, greedy for her softness…
The last time anyone had touched me without aiming to cause pain was a lifetime ago.
