Kyor’s assessment, when it’s delivered, is cool and completely on themoney. ‘All of this just to kill Kultavaris?’ His gaze lands on Zara. ‘You give her too much power.’
It’s unclear to me whether he means me or Zara.
‘Well, then,’ he says, as if he’s made up his mind, ‘just bring them to their knees, is it?’ he asks casually.
A burst of pain across my shoulder makes me realise I should be paying more attention to what I’m doing rather than staring at the prince. Yet it’s hard to draw my eyes away as he kicks off his shoes and digs his feet into the sand.
Over on the other team, someone screams and drops to the ground with one of Grenda’s knives in their side. I barely notice. My eyes are trained on Kyor, breath quivering as I wait to see what he’ll do.
Oblivious to the battle unravelling around him, he presses his palms close together, as if in prayer, before reaching one hand up into the air.
The effect is instant. Green-tinged clouds sweep in and forks of lightning streak down from the sky, cracking through the air with such force that a rumble loud enough to shake the arc wall thunders through the yard. The entire atmosphere reverberates with the charge from the lightning that sinks into the ground, radiating under all our feet.
No one can hold themselves against it. Every single person drops to the ground.
Everyone except Kyor.
Silence engulfs the yard, every pair of eyes on the prince. A single bead of sweat weaves down his forehead as he remains perfectly motionless, other than the slightest coil at the corner of his mouth.
‘I win,’ he says simply to Holden.
The trainer’s cheeks pull inwards and he offers Kyor something between a smile and a grimace.
‘Very impressive, Your Royal Highness, as always.’
Kyor scoffs, and it’s with a sense of satisfaction that I realise he cares as much about Holden’s compliments as I do.
‘I guess that means training’s done for the day,’ Kyor notes. Still standing, he surveys the rest of the Rettlings with narrowed eyes. ‘Looks like the healers will be busy again,’ he says. When his eyes land on me, his icy gaze locks on my eyes before travelling down towards my chest.
Only then do I remember. I burned my top so Yeva could have ash to fight with, and now I’m out here in nothing but a black bra. Sweat drips down my skin, flowing over the beginnings of the burns reignited byZara’s powers. I should shrink away from his gaze, but I don’t. Instead, I push my shoulders back. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.
‘I prefer this look on you,’ he says, his eyes offering the slightest hint of a twinkle before he sobers. ‘Everyone clear out. I want the battle yard.’
The ringing command in his voice cannot be ignored, and we all scramble inside.
Chapter 33
Iwake in pitch-black darkness the next morning, Loch’s indistinct muttering resonating through the room. Trying my hardest not to wake anyone, I rummage around for my clothes. My choices are limited after half my wardrobe was sent up in flames by the Rowell Rettlings.
I hope Zelle will be ready to train me today. The fiasco yesterday with Holden only served to underline that, at the very least, I need to improve my proficiency with weapons.
Still bleary-eyed, I head into the battle yard, but as I approach the weapons cache, it’s not Zelle who waits for me, but Kyor.
‘What are you doing here?’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
‘I said I’d train you. Zelle’s out, so I’m in. Have you eaten?’
‘At this time of morning? No.’
‘You need energy to spar. Eat before you come next time. Something light, but something. Now.’ His eyes glitter in the darkness. ‘Let’s see if that footwork of yours has got any better.’
I don’t even try to stop my groan. I’m truly beginning to despise footwork. Though somehow my body seems to be recalling the training from my youth, my conscious thoughts and memories of them are hazy, like a veil has been drawn over the forms.
‘Your stance is too narrow.’ He glares at me as I crouch into position. ‘And you need to be more side-on.’
Ishift myself slightly, and he sniffs.
‘Better. Now come for me.’ He swings a seax, the small fighting dagger whirling casually in his hand.
