Cillian spins, facing the threat at the last possible moment. His opponent’s dagger slashes across his arm, drawing blood, but he catches the attacker's wrist and twists. The crack of breaking bone is followed by a howl of pain.
The dagger clatters to the ground.
Cillian scoops up the fallen dagger and presses it to his attacker's throat, forcing him to his knees.
"Yield," he demands, voice surprisingly lilted and sounding barely out of breath.
The bleeding man nods frantically, eyes wide with fear.
Cillian steps back, tossing the dagger aside. He stands amidst his fallen opponents, chest heaving, blood dripping from his arm. His pale hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, but his ice-blue eyes remain calm, scanning the yard for the next threat.
There isn't one. The other guards keep their distance, a new wariness in their posture.
"He's fast."
"Speed over strength," the king agrees. "And intelligence. Did you notice how he let them underestimate him? Used their assumptions against them."
I nod, still watching as Cillian presses a cloth to his bleeding arm. "Four larger opponents, and he barely broke a sweat."
"He's bleeding," Father points out.
"A scratch. He'll live." I straighten, decision made. "I want him."
Father raises an eyebrow. "Are you certain? There are more experienced guards. Men with bloodlines, connections that could serve you politically."
“Subterfuge is the best political tool there is.” I meet my father's gaze steadily. “You saw him on the training field. Our enemies won’t see this one coming until it’s too late.”
King Leopold studies me for a moment, then nods, something like approval in his eyes. "Very well. Cillian will be assigned as your personal guard, effective immediately."
Below, the yard has returned to normal, the fallen attackers limping off to lick their wounds. Cillian stands alone, wrapping a bandage around his arm, seemingly unaware he's being observed.
"I'll have him brought to your quarters this afternoon," Leopold says, already turning to leave. "Try not to get him killed too quickly."
I linger at the railing after my father departs, watching Cillian return to his drills. There is something fascinating about how he moves. Economical. Precise. Not a single wasted motion. He trains alone now, the others giving him a wide berth.
Good. Let them fear him. Fear will keep them honest.
I push away from the railing, satisfied with my choice. Cillian doesn't know it yet, but his life has just changed forever.
TEN YEARS AGO
I frown at the map spread across the table, tracing my finger along a wide river that snakes through the territory. "If we position a unit here, we can control access to the village from the south."
Cillian leans in beside me, his pale hair falling forward as he studies the topography. "The terrain's too exposed. Sniperswould have clear lines of sight from these ridges." He taps three elevated points on the map.
"Then we move under cover of darkness." I shift a cluster of markers representing our forces. "Come in from the east, through the forest."
"The locals say those woods are haunted." Cillian's tone is dry. "Apparently, anyone who enters at night never returns."
I snort. "Convenient story to keep people away. Makes me wonder what they're hiding in there."
"Or who." Cillian straightens, rolling his shoulders with a grimace. We've been hunched over these maps for hours. "When I agreed to follow you into military service, I imagined more debauchery and fewer logistics meetings."
His complaint pulls a laugh from me. "Disappointed?”
"Desperately." He gestures to the sparse command tent. "Not a single dancing girl or bottle of decent whiskey to be found. Your Highness has misled me terribly."
"The fun part comes after we liberate the village and find ourselves drunk in the nearest tavern surrounded by grateful maidens,” I remind him, more amused than I should be by his theatrics. Cillian is as much a prima donna as he a natural born killer. “You can't properly celebrate a victory before you've won it."
