Chapter Thirty-Eight

T he morning’s mist swirls around my ankles as I approach the eastern side of the castle walls. I wave at what must be Lysander in the distance and he waves back. Even from here, I can see his open smile.

As I close the distance and get close enough to greet him, he lifts the basket in my hand and in its place, offers his other arm. I wrap my hand around his offered arm and we follow the worn, dirt path that winds back and forth along the cliff face down to the sparkling water below.

Cattails whip lazily in the breeze while the sunlight plays across the approaching water. As the path narrows, he takes the lead and I can’t help but notice the twin blades strapped to his belt. They’re like no other blade I’ve ever seen. Of course, I’m no expert, but these look especially deadly with their long, curved blades hidden within their scabbards. I can’t wait to see them in action.

“I haven’t been down this way since my youth,” I offer as most of our trek has been in silence.

“I don’t suppose even the castle walls could easily contain someone like you,” he replies.

“In what way do you mean?” The words almost sound like a compliment.

“You seem… different from other women I’ve met.” He looks back at me and takes my hand, guiding me around a particularly rocky part of the path. “It doesn’t surprise me you’ve been down this way before.”

We arrive at the small beach and I instantly kick off my slippers, which are certainly not ideal for the trek, but Marlys wouldn’t let me wear my boots.

He laughs, a sound full of warmth, like he does this often. “See? You dive right in.”

It’s odd having someone who knows nothing of you make observations. I suppose since I’ve been back at the castle, I’ve been more spontaneous. I’ve had to be. And the feeling it gives me feels like the sand that squelches beneath my toes. “I suppose I do.” I smile as another piece of myself unlocks.

He shakes out a blanket and motions for me to sit. As he joins me, I don’t miss the way his guards post up around us. As if anyone could reach us down here, we’d see them coming from a mile off in any direction.

I settle in, fluffing out my skirts beside him and in one smooth movement, he sits beside me, his swords cast off to the side. Our conversation is light as we snack on the fruit and cheese packed for us. He sets a canteen between us to share.

As we pack up what remains, I say, “I seem to remember you mentioning some fancy sword work.” I blush and hope he doesn’t read too much into what, in my mind, sounds like a clear, very innocent lead into him showing me what he knows—but could easily be misconstrued into something else entirely.

He busies himself with packing away the last of the meal before turning toward me. “I did. But I don’t want to bore you, so if you’d rather just sit and admire the view, that’s okay, too.

“No, I’d actually love to see your work. If it’s not too much to ask.”

At that, his smile widens and he moves to stand. Before grabbing his swords, he pulls his shirt over his head, folding it neatly before setting it atop the basket. Without a glance at me, he replaces his leather scabbard around his hips and draws the blades.

“I’ve never seen curved blades before.”

“They’re called shamshir.” He holds them for me to look at.

I trace my fingers across the cold metal. The intricate carvings all the way to the tip are beautiful. “It’s odd that something so beautiful can be so deadly.”

“Truer words were never said.” He moves outward, closer to the water, and begins moving through his technique work.

His movements are precise and the blades move as if an extension of his body. I can only dream that one day I’ll have a fraction of his speed and grace. He moves over the sand as if he were dancing across the water behind him.

I can barely take my eyes off his swift slashes and strikes, but I also can’t help but admire the way his muscles flex as he transitions. A dance in and of itself, the way his muscles tighten and release, the way they ripple as he moves smoothly from one movement to the next. And as the time passes, the glimmer of sweat reflects the sunlight, causing him to shine like a star himself.

After a particularly intricate set of movements, he sheaths his swords. He takes a few gulps from the canteen and looks to me, almost sheepishly awaiting my approval.

“That was beautiful.” I would hate to come up against him in a fight. There would be no chance for me. “But why, may I ask, are they curved? ”

He tilts his head, surprised that this is the question I have after all of that. “Shamshirs are best for cutting. While swords are for stabbing.” The difference of the two are lost on me. And I think he realizes it. “In Etos, we have to cover a lot of ground. So we often ride on horseback. A shamshir is made to cut down your enemy from above, and the curved blade allows for the most direct contact for the most amount of time.”

A chill runs down my spine. Beautiful and deadly indeed.

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