4. Chapter 4
4
Chapter 4
Adar
“And how was that? Hope I wasn’t too gentle that time.” I stood over Bronwen, fighting back a smirk. Frustration shone in her eyes as she pushed herself off the dirt. Her bright green eyes—just like mine—almost seemed to glow under the late afternoon sun, burning with stubborn determination. Strands of dark, wavy hair clung to her sweat-dampened face, and streaks of dust smeared across her tan skin. She was small, but she never let that stop her, always making up for it with sheer force of will. That will, however, wouldn’t save her in a real fight if she kept making the same mistakes. Her pride was stung, and I couldn’t help but enjoy the small victory.
But beneath the satisfaction was the constant worry gnawing at me. She needed to learn. Not for my sake or Papa’s, but for her own survival.
Yesterday, I held back, letting her think she was gaining ground. Today? She had pushed too far. She said I swung like a lady at court fanning herself— soft and delicate . She didn’t realize how much she relied on my patience.
Her next swing came low and quick, the blade cutting through the air with a sharp whoosh. I turned my foot sharply, the ground shifting beneath my boot, and avoided her strike.
“Your eyes are giving you away,” I said.
“What?” she snapped, her voice thick with irritation. She lunged again, her movements fast but imprecise. Our swords clashed in a harsh, ringing note that echoed through the yard, the vibration tingling up my arm. There was no strategy in her strike, just raw frustration.
“You’re looking at your target spot before you swing. That’ll get you gutted,” I warned, my voice steady but firm.
Her scowl deepened. Bronwen’s shoulders were rigid, her hands tightening around the hilt of her sword. Sweat beaded on her forehead, a testament to her effort, but it was clear she was pushing herself past her limit. This time, she missed completely. And again. Same outcome.
I shook my head. “You can’t just look me in the eyes either.”
Her hands tightened around the hilt, the tension in her shoulders making every swing more erratic. She was seething, her breaths coming faster.
“Then what the fuck am I supposed to do?” she spat, her voice rising with frustration. “Look at your feet? No. Look where I intend my sword to make contact? No! Shall I close my eyes? Is that what you want?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, jabbing the sword toward me in a reckless burst of anger. If I hadn’t been paying attention, she would have skewered me then and there.
But that might have been her goal.
With one quick movement, I sidestepped, the dry earth crunching under my boots, and knocked the sword clean out of her hands. It clattered to the ground, the metallic sound cutting through the tense air. She froze, her fists clenched, her jaw tight, as she stared me down.
She didn’t need to say it—her anger was written across every inch of her face. Without a word, she turned and stormed toward the house, her steps sharp and forceful. Dust kicked up in her wake, swirling in the golden light of late afternoon.
Her stubbornness would either get her killed or make her a queen.
And I’d gladly sacrifice myself if it meant she would be ruling a kingdom one day . . . unless she decided to kill me first.
I sighed, bending over to collect her sword. The polished blade felt cool against my palm, the weight a familiar comfort. I ran my thumb along its edge, testing its sharpness, before slipping it into the sheath and following her back toward the house.
As I walked, my thoughts lingered on the tension between us. Bronwen didn’t see the bigger picture, not yet. She thought I was trying to control her, to shape her into something she didn’t want to be. But that wasn’t it at all. Every sparring session, every harsh word—it was for her. Because if she wasn’t ready, the world wouldn’t give her the time to learn.
Something was coming for her. I could feel it.
I tried to brush it off, to dismiss it as nothing but me being too protective over her. But when Papa’s yells and Mama’s screams filled our home after they found her on the steps, those worries became real.
And if something happened to her because I didn’t push hard enough . . . I wouldn’t forgive myself.
The house felt quieter when I stepped inside. The dim light filtering through the small windows cast long shadows across the creaking wooden floorboards. Bronwen had retreated to her room, and the faint sound of a drawer closing reached me as I walked down the narrow hall. She was at her vanity, her back to me.
Carefully dabbing something onto her cheeks, she was completely absorbed in her reflection. It was so . . . Bronwen . She could be covered in dirt, bruised from sparring, and still insist on perfecting every detail of her appearance.
Her vanity wasn’t just pride—it was armor. I knew that. Bronwen always needed to control something, and if it couldn’t be the chaos of our world, it would be herself.
“You’re out of practice,” I said, leaning casually against the doorframe.
She continued patting too much of that pink stuff onto her cheeks. Her brows furrowed with concentration, as if her appearance was the only thing that mattered in that moment.
“You’re out of practice,” I repeated, not moving from my spot.
Her only response was the sharp clink of the powder container slamming onto the table, the sound echoing against the walls.
She didn’t look at me, but I knew she was seething—her back stiffened, her lips pressed tightly together.
“You haven’t been here,” she snapped, her voice hard and raw. “What did you expect? That I’d practice with a tree? Papa’s too busy, and no man around here would ever give me the chance. You haven’t been here, and I needed you.”
Her words cut deeper than her blade ever could. I hadn’t chosen to leave, but I couldn’t deny that I had left her to face things alone. I wasn’t prepared for that level of bitterness, but I pushed the sting aside, keeping my tone steady. “I wasn’t given a choice. You know that.”
Her hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms.
I pushed off from the doorframe and took a step into the room. “I have to do this. For Papa and for the—”
She whirled around to face me, her eyes blazing with a fire I hadn’t seen in a while. “Do not say the coven.”
I took a slow breath, trying to keep my composure instead of matching her with the anger I felt brewing inside of me. “They are our responsibility whether you accept it or not. You know that.”
And I knew I couldn’t protect her forever. But for now, I could prepare her. Even if it meant she resented me. Even if it cost me the relationship we once had.
***
The next day, after the tense silence had stretched thin between us—which our parents noticed immediately at supper—I found myself pacing the yard, waiting for her. Our practice area was nothing more than a patch of worn dirt surrounded by wild grass. The ground bore the scuffs of countless hours spent training, the marks of sparring etched into the earth like a testament to our struggles. A light breeze carried the scent of damp soil and the faint tang of iron from the swords. This wasn’t a grand arena; it was our yard—a simple, rugged place shaped by Papa, Bronwen, and me. Several minutes had passed, and I was starting to wonder if I would have to face Papa to explain why the light of his life still couldn’t land a proper strike.
She had the swiftness and the unnerving ability to kill in a sword fight without giving it a second thought. It was impressive, but it unsettled me too.
I let out a sigh when the back door swung open, and Bronwen marched over to the practice area, sword in hand.
“You still want to do this?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
She didn’t answer but raised her sword in challenge.
I nodded, raising my own blade in readiness. “Alright, give me your best shot.”
She came at me faster than I expected, her movements sharper than before. This time, she wasn’t swinging wildly. Every strike was more focused, more controlled. I had to work to keep up with her pace.
“You’ve been holding back,” I said between parries, blocking her thrusts as she continued her assault.
“I haven’t been holding back. I’m just more annoyed now,” she shot back.
I grinned, parrying another attack. “You’re improving. But your footwork is still sloppy.”
She huffed and swung again, but I saw it coming this time. I stepped to the side and knocked her blade out of alignment, making her fall to the ground.
“You need to flow with your movements, B. Footwork, precision, timing,” I said as I offered a hand to help her up. My hand hovered for a moment, hesitating as I watched her expression. Pride flickered beneath the frustration in her eyes, a subtle reminder of how far she had come. But the weight of my responsibility loomed just as heavily.
Could I push her hard enough to prepare her without breaking that fire?
As she finally reached for my hand, I gripped hers firmly, pulling her up. “Like this.” I showed her how to step fluidly, how to move with her sword instead of against it.
This time, she struck with more confidence, adjusting her stance as I’d taught her. Every move wasn’t perfect, but it was far better than before. We sparred for a while longer, sweat dripping down our foreheads.
“You’re not there yet, but you’re getting closer,” I said, breathless but pleased with the effort. Watching her now, I couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. She was determined, relentless even. I hoped she’d find the balance before the world demanded it from her. She nodded, wiping her brow.
“I’m not done yet,” she muttered. “I’ll never be done.”
I smiled, watching her carefully. “Good. Never stop.”