She so desperately wanted to just let her family deal with the 18th, to say she had tried and step away. But her family couldn’t afford to anger Karvek anymore. Another move and he would burn the whole post to the ground.
Iryana rubbed her eyes, trying not to throw up, vaguely aware that Hadima was still yelling. The whole family would know what she did soon enough. They wouldn’t forgive her.
She had already lost them.
An unsettling numbness settled over her.
“Hadima,” she shouted, snapping her sister out of her tirade. “Leave it to me. I will take care of Karvek and the brigade. Tell grandmother to pay—extra if she can. The Kleesolds need to stand down, assure Karvek it was all a mistake that will never happen again.”
Hadima just blinked at her in confusion, eyes still teary. “What are you talking about, Iryana?”
“I am so sorry for everything. But I will fix this. Find a way for the Kleesold clan to prove to the duchess that you have this under control.”
“I thought it was too dangerous. That youcouldn’t.”
Iryana swallowed. “It doesn’t matter. I will take care of it.”
Hadima nodded slowly.
“Go,” Iryana urged. “Tell grandmother.”
For the first time, Iryana was too numb to fear letting them down. To fear their rejection.
She headed back to the fort, the forest a blur of the oranges and reds of autumn crawling between the blue-green pines.
Iryana tensed and then sprung the moment she saw Mezhimar move. Her forearm collided with his arm, knocking his practice dagger away while she thrust hers at his ribs. He blocked—barely—and Iryana shoved her shoulder into him, almost knocking the much larger man out of his stance.
His face twisted in actual aggravation, more than was warranted from sparring, but then again, Iryana wasn’t fighting like it was just sparring. She was fighting like everything depended on her, though not with her forged weapons; that would be far too dangerous. She had found practice ones that were close enough. Becoming as strong as she could meant no pulling punches.
It had been a week since Karvek had punished her family. A week since she promised to find a solution.
Dust kicked up under her feet as she skidded out of the way of his attempt to latch an arm around her body. Her braid was losing the fight to contain her hair, light brown tendrils sticking to her neck and face.
She lost herself in the fight, putting all her strength into keeping his dagger from her body and pelting him with blow after blow until finally one landed.
Mezhimar coughed, falling a few steps back from her. “Damn Kleesolda, I’m not the enemy.”
She was too worked up to apologize, and just took her stance again and waited for him to be ready. Other soldiers from around the training yard were throwing concerned glances their way. She didn’t care.
“Is there a problem?” a familiar voice interrupted.
“Yeah,” Mezhimar admitted, rubbing his shoulder gingerly. “I feel like a punching bag. She’s hitting too hard this week.”
Pyetar sighed and looked at Iryana regretfully. “Switch,” he ordered.
Mezhimar offered a grateful smile and let Pyetar take his place. Pyetar’s expression was nowhere close to relieved, and his steps were hesitant; he looked more pained than anything else.
He still seemed like he was in pain any time he had to be around her. Her presence was like poison.
“You’re fighting a bit hard, aren’t you?” he asked softly as he sunk down. Knees bent, stance wide, and dagger held in a fist between them.
“No,” she snapped, flying into movement. An obvious blow to his face that turned into a feint and slice across his stomach, which Pyetar blocked. He was so much faster than Mezhimar, so much stronger.
Iryana growled as he stopped defending and started his own offensive. She tried to defend against a punch to her shoulder, but he caught her arm and trapped it against her side. His other hand caught the wrist of her dagger hand and yanked her closer.
His skin against hers was searing, and Iryana regretted her choice of weapon for the morning. Dagger fighting was far too intimate. Especially withhim.
“You’re being wild, not smart,” he hissed.
