“Do I need to be worried?” Thal asked in a whisper that Lory knew Khayrivven picked up easily.
“About what?” She turned toward him, admiring the new brown square on Thal’s uniform.
“About Falcrest being in an even shittier mood than yesterday?”
Beside them, Brycon and Eira shifted on their feet, apparently as uncomfortable under Khayrivven’s scrutiny as everyone else.
“He’s always in a shitty mood,” she said without keeping her voice down.
Thal grinned. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
Lory almost coughed up the breath she’d taken, forcing a nod. “It’s been said to work miracles.”
“Maybe you should get laid too, then,” Thal added with a grin, and Lory almost choked again. But she forced a grin. “Maybe I’ll find myself a cute fresh thornling and celebrate the Tears of the Gods with him.”
A dark chuckle floated on a wind, and Lory knew Khayrivven was standing right behind her. The ire in his thundercloud eyes when he pinned her with them was one for the centuries. “If you spend time on a battlefield discussing who needs toget laid, you’ll forfeit your useless life before you can take down even one enemy.”
Lory held his stare, withstanding the silent accusation. The memory of when he’d said he didn’t want to share her.
“You said no,” she merely repeated in her mind, watching the ire gutter.“And you can’t have it both ways.”
So much anger swirled inside her veins these days that she barely made it from one class to the other without needing to calm her magic. It was a crutch, though. One that shielded her aching heart, one that helped her pretend the glowing thread that had tied itself to her chest wasn’t always there, idle and observant, like a piece of the captain himself.
Lory shoved the thought aside. It was easier to be upset with him than to examine from up close what had happened.
“Apologies, sir.” Her words came out clipped, and Thal repeated them, his eyes darting between the captain and her, while Brycon and Eira remained at attention a few steps to the side.
“That’s three extra rounds for both of you,” Khayrivven said in that dead, cold tone Lory knew was his shield, andit killed her—killedher—not to know what was going on inside that head.
Why hadn’t the gods reversed her ability, made her able to read his thoughts instead of sending hers into his head, making her spill over and over again how she felt for him?
Oh, she was pathetic all right.
“Start at the wall”—Khayrivven pointed at the highest of the facades—“then continue over the three gaps there”—he gestured at the mock roofs with the widest gaps—“then make the leap to that wall. All of you. Now.”
Biting her tongue, Lory started running, followed by the others, who hadn’t had the honor of individual classes with the Veiled Hand.
As she climbed, leaped, climbed, leaped, Lory fell into a familiar rhythm. Thal was a few paces behind her, following her lead, as did Brycon and Eira, the two of them slightly slower and less assured with their handholds and footholds.
About halfway through her second round, Khayrivven called Lory to the side, a practice sword in his hand and the conflict of the ages warring on his expression. Panting, she stopped two paces from him, bending over and bracing her hands on her knees as she caught her breath.
“I’m sorry.” Khayrivven had used those words before, and Lory had ignored them, telling herself it would be easier to pretend nothing had ever happened.
But every breath was agony when he looked at her the way he did now, so she kept her head down, refusing to meet his gaze.
“No, I’m sorry, Khayrivven. I’m sorry I told you what I did. I’m sorry, I asked you if you felt the same. If I had never expectedmorethan what this was, I would never have been—”Disappointed, she amended, but only to herself.Devastated. Heartbroken.Because, despite never having put a label on their relationship, Lory had somehow believed that what they had was special.
“Now, if you don’t mind, don’t look at me like that, or someone will notice.”Out loud, she said, “Yes, Hand Falcrest?”
“I will speak to you tonight,” he murmured as he handed her a bag filled with rocks she hadn’t noticed in his hands. “Put this on your belt,” he said with his full voice. “The extra weight will take all that excess energy off your hands, and you won’t need to worry about finding afresh thornlingto help you with that.”
She wasn’t sure she was imagining the edge of jealousy in his tone, and she didn’t dare examine it more closely.
So Lory took the bag, slung it through her belt, and ran.
Sayingher body was aching that night would have been an understatement. Every bone weighed about triple its usual weight, and the rocks had left bruises on Lory’s hip where they’d bounced against her flesh and bones with every step. If Khayrivven had intended to punish her for keeping her distance, he’d thoroughly succeeded. Only, Lory knew betterthan anyone that he’d never do that. He’d kept in character, set an example for the new thornlings about what happened when someone made jokes during training, kept the facade of the ruthless captain. And had used that moment of handing her the bag to try to soften the blow of his rejection.
Not that he needed to. At least Lory told herself that as she forced a wince out of her expression while she climbed the stairs to her room after dinner. Khayrivven hadn’t been in his usual spot for long, leaving the meal early and rushing from the mess hall after the Master of Whispers without a look back.
