Chapter 17 #2
Caelion had scouted ahead, leaving only the three of them and the snap of flame.
The world had been still for days—no sign of Turlaith pursuit, though all of them knew better than to trust in peace.
They were taking the back roads through Naidiryn’s borderlands, paths that twisted through half-forgotten marsh and fen, far from patrols and traders.
Elara bristled. “Thank you, Aoife—ever the picture of encouragement.”
She grinned wolfishly and went back to dragging steel across stone.
Reynnar tapped Elara’s blade with his own. The sound was a quick, clean knock that seemed to wake the birds in the hedgerow. “From the top,” he said. “And relax your fingers. You’re strangling the hilt.”
“If I relax, you’ll knock it out of my hands.”
“You’re finally getting the hang of my teaching style.” He slid behind her before she could glare properly, big hands closing over hers. He adjusted her grip, the calluses on his palms rough against her knuckles. “Here. Let the heel of your hand float. Your wrist will thank you later.”
“It feels the same.”
“Liar,” he murmured near her ear, breath warm against her temple. “Strike.”
She cut right, aiming for his ribs. He turned her blade aside like an afterthought. Reluctantly, she discovered she liked the version of herself that could meet him as a problem—and solve him.
“Again.”
She struck. He parried with ease. She struck harder. He danced out of range, the flat of his blade kissing her knuckles on his way past. Stinging heat flared across her hand; she swore under her breath.
Reynnar smiled, fangs flashing and lifted his wooden sword again, the motion so sure it almost looked lazy.
Growling, she went for his knee; he caught her wrist, spun her neatly, and pinned her back against his chest, the cool flat of his blade across her ribs.
His hand caught her waist, steadying her.
“Dead,” Reynnar murmured, his breath feathering the line of her throat.
His hand lingered, and heat snapped up her neck.
She wrenched free, swung at his head out of pure wounded dignity, and he ducked, laughing.
When they dropped their blades at last, sweat slid down her spine and her chest heaved. She sank into the flattened grass, her practice sword slipping uselessly across her lap.
Reynnar cast the practice sword aside and dragged a hand through his damp hair. “You’re coming along. Give it a fortnight, and I might have to start watching for that swing of yours.”
Elara closed her eyes against the glare of the morning sun. “Now you’re lying. I heard Caelion last night—apparently I look like someone waving a broom at a bee.”
He laughed under his breath and dragged his damp tunic over his head, tossing it aside.
Heat still clung to him, skin slick with sweat as he dropped beside her.
Early light traced the hard lines of his shoulders and the grooves disappearing beneath his waistband.
His arm brushed hers. She went still, then shifted away.
“Don’t let Caelion or Aoife get in your head. We’re taught to fight before we can walk.” His grin tilted wryly. “I’ve had a lifetime of Aoife’s training methods. Trust me—she prefers fewer words and more projectiles. You’re lucky you got the patient one.”
A pebble zinged past his head, close enough to stir a lock of his dark hair before thudding into the grass. He didn’t even flinch. Aoife’s knife never paused.
Elara’s eyes flew wide. “She trained you?”
Reynnar shifted onto his side, propping his head in his palm.
“Aye. She was my first teacher. I learned how not to die—because she near killed me often enough to make the lesson stick.” A faint smile touched his mouth, more memory than mirth.
“Aoife believed mercy made weak soldiers. So she offered me none.”
Elara snorted and tried to picture it.
He smiled at the look on her face. “Don’t human siblings do the same?”
“I…wouldn’t know.” Her voice caught—then stilled altogether as the image struck—the flicker of white-blond hair, a grin too quick to be anything but mischief. Brother, the Collective had whispered when it gave her that piece of memory. Raijin.
Her heart gave a painful squeeze.
She looked down, knuckles tightening white on the hilt of her practice sword.
Reynnar’s gaze settled over her, steady as a hand upon the spine of a book, reading her as deftly as he always had.
He bent, brushing a kiss against the crown of her head—the ghost of warmth lingering in her hair—then rose without a word.
When he returned, he held out a skin of water.
Elara drank greedily, cool tin-tinged mouthfuls rushing down her throat, filling her until her belly sloshed with it.
She passed it back, watching as Reynnar tipped his head and drank with the same hunger, before upending the remainder over his dark hair, rivulets cutting down his temples and throat before dripping into the trampled grass.
Bootsteps broke the meadow’s hush as Caelion emerged from the road. “Tracks on the lowlands,” he said without preamble, voice low and clipped. “Two days old, at least. We’ll keep to the low road until dusk.”
“Someone behind us?” Reynnar asked, closing the water skin.
“Possibly.” Caelion’s gaze swept them both. “Though not many. A small camp. The ash was still warm when I touched it. They’re keeping low, same as us.”
Elara’s mouth dried. She forced the question out anyway. “Do you think they’re tracking us?”
“Maybe,” Caelion said. “Maybe not. Wanderers pass these roads. But I don’t trust coincidence.”
Aoife rose from her perch on the log, blade glinting in her hand. Her expression lost all trace of mischief. “If it’s only travelers, then we lose nothing but sleep. If it isn’t—if it is them—then one night’s march may keep us alive.”
The air thickened with her words. Caelion gave a single, grave nod, and Reynnar dragged a hand through his hair with a muttered curse.
“Then we move.”
Aoife crossed the clearing and, without a word, placed the blade into Caelion’s hand. He dipped his head in thanks, a motion small and solemn, before his eyes followed her retreat. He watched the long sway of her hair. Only then did his attention drop back to the steel in his grip.