Chapter 39 #2
She followed his gaze to her sleeve, where a smear of red stood out against the pale fabric. Auren’s blood. She’d been so careful.
“Paint,” she said quickly, tugging her sleeve down. “Flicker got into my supplies again. You know how he is.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “I thought you cleaned all that up days ago.”
“He found more. Hidden stash. Very clever.” She was babbling. She needed to stop. “I should go change.”
“Cass—”
“The others will be back soon,” she said, already backing away. “I need to… prepare.”
She fled before he could finish, acutely aware of his eyes on her back.
By afternoon, the dormitory was chaos. Trunks everywhere, voices overlapping as everyone shared their break adventures at once. Cassara sat on her bed, letting the noise wash over her, only half-listening to Liri’s tale about her younger brother’s attempt to tame a particularly aggressive chicken.
“—and then Cassara, you won’t believe what happened at the embassy dinner!”
She looked up to where Evie was perched on her bed, eyes bright.
“Julian was there, of course. Looking absolutely devastating in formal wear. That dark green really brings out his eyes, don’t you think?”
Cassara made a noncommittal sound.
“Him and Sonia danced three times. He only danced with me once. He’s an excellent dancer, but I’m sure you already know that. He seemed distracted. Kept looking toward the doors like he was waiting for someone.”
“Fascinating,” Cassara said flatly.
“He asked about you. Several times, actually. Wanted to know if you’d mentioned coming to the capital.”
Cassara thought of controlling hands and possessive words and the way Julian’s charm could turn to cruelty in a heartbeat.
“I decided to stay here.”
“You’re so dedicated,” Evie groaned, flopping back.
But even as the conversation moved on, Talia quietly sharing something about her village’s winter traditions, Liri bouncing between beds to distribute small gifts, Cassara’s mind remained split.
Auren was back, wounded and secretive, trusting her with his presence but nothing else.
Gideon had kissed her, and she’d kissed him back, and now they couldn’t even look at each other without the weight of it pressing down.
And somewhere out there, Julian was watching doors and asking questions, his attention a noose waiting to tighten.
The break was over.
Whatever simple peace she’d found in snow and firelight was already fading, replaced by the familiar tangle of secrets and wanting and impossible choices.
She pressed her fingers to the bracelet at her wrist, leather and promise and a blank bead waiting to be filled, and wondered if Gideon had spent his morning thinking about kisses too.
Wondered if Auren was safe in his room or already gone again.
Wondered how long she could balance on this knife’s edge before everything came crashing down.
The practice arena echoed with the sound of failure.
“Again,” Gideon called, but even he sounded tired.
They reset formation for the dozenth time that morning. Oliver took point with Thornweaver, his crossbow, Barrett anchored the left flank, Liri floated between positions, and Cassara held right. The space where Verena should have been gaped like a missing tooth.
“Defensive pattern C,” Gideon commanded. “Rett, you need to—”
The formation crumbled before he could finish. Without Verena’s manticore to hold the center line, Barrett had to overextend, which pulled Oliver out of position, which in turn left Cassara exposed, which—
“Stop.” Nareen’s voice cut across the arena. “This isn’t working.”
Really? Cassara thought, like they hadn’t all noticed.
A week back, and they moved like strangers. Every drill highlighted what they’d lost, not just Verena’s skill, but the brutal efficiency her presence had provided. Love her or hate her, she’d been a wall nothing could break through.
Now they had gaps everywhere.
“Take five,” Nareen ordered. “Hydrate. We’ll try pattern D next.”
Pattern D. As if cycling through the alphabet would magically conjure a sixth team member.
Cassara grabbed her water, trying not to notice how Gideon stood apart from the group, shoulders rigid with tension. He’d been like this all week, distant during drills, barely speaking outside them. She knew why, of course.
“This is a disaster,” Oliver muttered, adjusting his ACS bracer for the hundredth time. “We’re down twenty percent on defensive coverage. The mathematical probability of success with our current formation is—”
“We know,” Barrett said quietly. “We all know.”
Liri fidgeted with her canteen. “Maybe if I pushed Nym to be more aggressive? I could try to fill some of the gap.”
“Your moth isn’t meant for defensive holds,” Cassara said, then immediately regretted how sharp it came out. “Sorry. I just mean… we can’t force beasts into roles they’re not suited for.”
“Unlike tamers,” Gideon said, just loud enough to carry.
She looked up to find him watching her, something unreadable in his expression. The intensity of his gaze made her stomach flip, and she hated how her body responded, heat creeping up her neck, pulse quickening, the memory of his mouth on hers suddenly, vividly present.
She looked away first.
“Pattern D,” Nareen called. “Positions.”
They tried. Gods, they tried. But Pattern D failed just as spectacularly as A through C.
Cassara found herself constantly out of position, either overcompensating for gaps or pulling back too far.
It didn’t help that every time Gideon corrected her stance, professional, distant, barely touching, her skin lit up like she’d been branded.
“Your left shoulder,” he said during one reset, reaching out to adjust her form. His fingers barely grazed her, but she felt it everywhere. “You’re telegraphing.”
“I’m not telegraphing.” She jerked away from his touch. “Maybe if the formation actually made sense—”
“The formation is fine. Your execution—”
“My execution is perfect when I’m not having to cover two positions at once!”
They glared at each other, weeks of careful teamwork evaporating. Around them, the others shifted uncomfortably.
“Perhaps,” Nareen interrupted, “you could save your personal disputes for after practice. Run it again.”
Heat flooded Cassara’s face. Personal disputes. As if everyone couldn’t see the crackling tension, couldn’t guess at its source.
They ran it again. Failed again. By the end of the session, they’d cycled through every defensive pattern in the manual and invented three new ones. None worked.
“Dismissed,” Nareen finally said. “Individual training tomorrow morning. Team drills in the afternoon. Find a solution or fail out. Your call.”
The threat hung heavy as they dispersed. Two weeks until their next arena match. Two weeks to fix the unfixable.
Cassara lingered, watching the others file out. Gideon remained too, rolling his shoulders like he could shake off the morning’s failures.
“We need to talk,” he said quietly.
“About the formations? Because I think—”
“About why you can’t look at me.” He stepped closer, and her traitorous body swayed toward him before she caught herself. “About why you flinch every time I correct your form. About—”
“Don’t.” The word came out desperate. “Please. Not here.”
“Then where?” Frustration crept into his voice. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. We can’t lead a team like this.”
He was right. She knew he was right. But how could she explain?
That every time he got close, she remembered firelight and chocolate and the way he’d said her name?
That she’d spent the week split between worrying for Auren, who remained frustratingly absent from public view, and this unwanted, persistent awareness of Gideon?
That kissing him had been a mistake, but she couldn’t stop thinking about doing it again?
“I know,” she said finally. “Just… give me time.”
“Time.” He laughed, short and humorless. “We have two weeks, Cass. Less than that.”
The nickname made her shiver. He noticed, of course he noticed, and his expression shifted to something softer, more dangerous.
“Is it because of—” He stopped. “No. Forget it. Individual training tomorrow. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
He left without waiting for a response. Cassara stood alone in the empty arena, Flicker materializing at her feet with a concerned chirp.
You’re being weird, he informed her.
“I know.”
Both of you are being weird. It’s affecting the team.
“I know that too.”
So stop being weird.
If only it were that simple. If only she could compartmentalize, lock away midnight kisses and morning guilt, secret wounds and persistent want. Be the leader her team needed instead of a girl caught between two impossible choices.
But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Auren’s blood on her hands.
And every time Gideon got close, she remembered exactly how he tasted.
Two weeks to fix their formation.
She wasn’t sure that would be nearly enough time to fix herself.
Two weeks crawled by in a blur of failed formations and growing frustration.
They were better, marginally. Oliver had developed a rotating coverage system that almost compensated for their missing defender.
Barrett had learned to split his attention without leaving Liri exposed.
But “almost” and “learning” weren’t enough. Not with tomorrow’s match looming.
Cassara moved through the afternoon’s drills on autopilot, muscle memory carrying her through patterns they’d run hundreds of times. Her mind was elsewhere, on formations, on rankings, on the persistent ache between her ribs that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
Then she saw him.
Across the training grounds, leading his second-years through sword work like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t bled all over her hands. Like he hadn’t vanished into his quarters for two weeks of silence.
Auren moved with his usual lethal grace, demonstrating a parry-riposte combination. No sign of injury. No indication that anything had changed.
Business as usual.