ISLA
“Here, I expected your return to put him in a good mood”—Ilya puffs as he tries to land a kick on my thigh the following afternoon in the castle training room—“but it’s even fouler than before.” He punches, but his fist sails through air when I crouch. “The only silver lining is that he’s?—”
I sweep his legs out from under him, and he smacks into the black mats with a mutedoomph. I reach down to clasp his hand, while Elio winces from the sidelines.
My Lucin friend hasn’t let me out of his sight since I burst back into skin at dawn after spending all night in feathers, weaving around the steep peaks of Garaglace, going as far north as the White Fang, which I took the time to visit. Despite the many intersecting train tracks, the sight of the frosty arena was a shot of pure adrenaline that increased my lethal mood tenfold.
The only reason I’m not scouring the kingdom from the air at the moment is because of the brutal snowstorm battering the mountain range. The winds were so violent, and the temperatures so frigid, that I was finding it harder and harder tostay afloat. Since I didn’t want to end up perched in Konstantin’s mountains like a weathervane, I flew back to his home.
A home which he has yet to return to himself, presumably riding his royal trolley to a confidential destination.
“He’s…?” I prompt.
“What?” Ilya pants.
“You mentioned a silver lining.”
“Oh, right. He’s eating again. A lot.” Ilya seizes my fingers, and I haul him to his feet. “Care to tell me how you’re so good at hand-to-hand combat?”
“Years of training with my grandfather, Cathal.”
Ilya wipes his brow. “Why did he train you so hard when you’re a shifteranda sorceress?”
“Because we don’t turn into shifters until puberty. As for spellcasting, though some of us are fast, sometimes, we’re not fast enough.” I glare at my scabbed fingertips.
“Izolda mentioned you were watching the boys spar, but here you are sparring yourself, Miss Ríhbiadh.” The voice has the whole of me tightening, from my stomach, to my mouth, to the beats of my heart, to the knot of anger in my chest.
I twist around to find Konstantin leaning against the wall, one boot planted on the sky-blue wainscoting. He holds his arms crossed over his torso that is ensconced in dark leather. His legs, too. Goddess below, he looks good in black. Especially with his hair swept up and bound into a top knot.
Remembering that I’m very mad at him, I tilt my chin and slant my eyes. “Want a turn, Vizosh?”
“I wouldn’t want to break you,Yegmenka.”
Ilya drops an arm around my squared shoulders. “No offence, big brother, but my money’s on Isla.”
Elio doesn’t echo his enthusiasm, staring with caution between me and the Ice King.
“What do I win when I win?” I ask.
A corner of Konstantin’s lips tucks up as he ambles toward me. “I see the Crow doesn’t fall far from the nest.” His jest makes Ilya hoot. “Name your prize, Miss Ríhbiadh.”
“A tell-all,” I snap.
My tone doesn’t fluster him one bit. He must’ve been informed of my humor.
“Any terms of your own, Vizosh?”
“I like to decide on my prize once I’ve won.” He stops an arms’ length away, his gaze stroking over my perspiration-glossed cheeks and sweat-matted braid, then lower, at the sleeveless leather top molded to my heaving chest, which I’ve paired with thick vambraces to keep my arms scratch-free.
I scoff. “That’s hardly fair.”
“Worried youcanbe beat, Miss Ríhbiadh?”
“No. But I like to understand the stakes of a battle I willingly engage in.”
“You can walk away.” Does he mean from this battle? From him? From Glace?
“Ineverwalk away.”Unlike some people…
