9. Gemira
Gemira
The training leathers feel strange against my skin. Not uncomfortable, just heavier and more restrictive than I’m used to. Finn got them for me. A swordmaster wouldn’t show up in street clothes, after all.
“You sure about this?” Finn asks quietly, slowing as the yards come into view.
He’s been asking that for days, at every planning meeting and every time we rehearse our story.
“It’s the only way,” I say. We both know this is our last chance. It’s been over a month of searching and circling dead ends while our mother is somewhere inside the castle.
Finn nods, but his jaw stays set, and the crease between his brows deepens. He’s terrified, not for himself, but for me.
“I can do this,” I tell him, and I try to mean it, because I have to.
We round the corner, and the training yard opens up. Men linger along the perimeter as we pass, their eyes tracking us instead of drifting. And there, in the center of it, Ryewood and Hayesland are sparring.
I’ve seen Ryewood fight before, in the pre-dawn darkness, stripped down to survival and instinct.
This is different. In full daylight there’s nothing to soften the edges, and I can’t stop myself from staring.
The way he moves is effortless and precise, every strike measured.
His footwork is flawless, with his weight shifting like the ground yields to him.
He’s stronger than Hayesland; that much is obvious. Hayesland has more control, but Ryewood moves around it like it’s nothing.
Sweat darkens his shirt, and the fabric clings to him with every shift of his muscles.
I lock my jaw and force my attention outward, on the yard, the guards, the exits, on anything but him.
I knew he was attractive; it’s hard not to notice that even in the dark.
But this, open, unguarded and fully himself, this is a problem.
I told myself a month apart would be enough to kill it. That everything with Mom would bury whatever this is. I was wrong.
“Gemma.”
Finn’s voice snaps me back, and I realize I’ve stopped walking. I shift my weight, forcing it forward, and remind myself why I’m here. Not for him, but for our mother, and for the spaces we haven’t reached yet.
Grier stands at the edge of the yard, with his arms crossed, posture closed and formal in a way I’ve never seen before. He spots us, and concern crosses his face before he buries it.
We’re close enough now to hear the rhythm of the fight. Then Ryewood glances over mid-parry and stills the moment his eyes land on me. Hayesland’s blade cuts in. Ryewood scrambles, barely catching the strike. He recovers, but his attention slides back to me again.
My muscles go taut.
He’s only ever seen me in the dark, in lamplight and shadow, the kind that blurs edges and softens details, with a mask always covering my face.
I look nothing like that girl now. I’m in training leathers instead of a costume, hair pulled back instead of loose.
There’s no reason he should recognize me, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me.
Then Ryewood’s attention locks back on the fight with a focus that wasn’t there before, like he has a reason to win. He drives into Hayesland with a flurry of strikes, faster and harder, giving no space or mercy. He’s showing off, for me, in front of the whole yard.
Hayesland blocks the first few, but Ryewood doesn’t give him room to reset. He’s all fluid motion and controlled force, each strike feeding the next with a precision that makes it look effortless, though I know better.
He steps into his brother’s guard, and with a twist of his wrist, Hayesland’s sword hits the ground. Ryewood’s blade rests at his throat.
Hayesland lifts his hands, laughter breaking through the exertion. “Fuck, Rye.”
Ryewood steps back, satisfaction written across his face. Then his eyes find mine again, and his grin eases into a quiet intensity that makes the yard dissolve at the edges until there’s only us.
“All right,” Grier cuts in, voice carrying across the yard. “Good work. Come meet your new swordmaster.”
Both princes turn fully toward us.
I straighten without thinking. Finn gives me the barest nod, and it steadies me the way it always does. I step forward with him. There’s no turning back now.
Ryewood’s gaze never leaves me as we close the distance. There’s something in it that should set every alarm I have ringing. Instead, heat blooms in my chest, dangerous in a way I can’t afford.
Finn starts, formal and careful. “This is Gemira.”
“Most people call me Gemma,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Gemma,” Ryewood slowly repeats my name, like he’s tasting the sound.
Hayesland steps forward first, offering me his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
His handshake is warm and polite.
“The pleasure’s mine, Your Highness.”
“Please—Hayes,” he says politely. “If you’re training us, formality seems hardly necessary.”
Ryewood steps forward, hand extended. “Ryewood.”
“Ryewood?” Finn says incredulously. “When the fuck do you go by Ryewood?”
“When the occasion calls for it,” he says, with his eyes locked on mine, and the implication lands like a blade between my ribs.
I take his hand. His grip lingers, and he lets the moment stretch.
“Grier, Commander of the Guard.”
Grier steps beside us and offers his hand. I pull free, but not fast enough to pretend it didn’t affect me. His expression gives nothing away, like we’ve never met in shadowed rooms.
“Gemma,” I say, taking his hand.
His grip tightens briefly, a quiet signal that steadies me.
“Finn’s spoken highly of your skills,” Grier says evenly. “We’re glad to have you.”
Ryewood watches the exchange with unsettling focus.
“Gemma,” he says again, his smile widening like he intends to use my name as often as possible. “Finn tells us you’re exceptional with a blade.”
“I hold my own.”
“She’s being modest,” Finn says, an edge slipping into his voice. “She’s one of the best fighters I know.”
“I think I need to see for myself,” Ryewood says, like he’s been looking for a reason to get closer. “Care to demonstrate?”
There it is, the challenge I knew was coming.
“Gladly.”
Ryewood moves toward the ring with a confident stride, rolling his shoulders loose with his sword already in hand. Sunlight catches the sharp line of his jaw, and for half a heartbeat, the thought slips in that this is a mistake.
I step forward into the circle. He moves into a ready stance, and everything else falls away. I adjust my grip. The sword is heavier than I’m used to, but the weight feels good and solid.
“Ready when you are, Gemma,” Ryewood says, with that easy confidence rolling off him.
I come at him, testing his reflexes. He blocks easily, too easily, and I feel him holding back, measuring me and studying my movements.
We can’t have that.
I feint left and strike right. He parries, but I’m already inside his guard before he can reset. I press harder, forcing him to react instead of think.
The clash of our steel rings across the yard. I feel drills slow along the perimeter, and eyes pulling toward us.
I drive harder, forcing him backward and breaking his rhythm. Each strike flows into the next. He’s good, better than I expected, but he hesitates when I come in at odd angles. He adjusts like someone trained against patterns, so I don’t give him one.
Our blades lock, and suddenly we’re too close. His eyes are deep green, earthen like the forest itself, and focused entirely on me.
“You’re quick,” he says with appreciation threading through his voice.
“You’re predictable.”
I twist free, using his momentum, and tap his ribs.
“Point,” Finn calls out.
Ryewood grins with his eyes dancing. “Lucky.”
“Was it?” I say, letting the challenge hang between us.
We reset. This time, he comes at me without restraint, with real speed and intent. This is the Ryewood who dismantled Hayes earlier, fluid and relentless, and I want every bit of it.
I meet him head-on. The thrill of the spar takes over, steel singing as I let him press me back, just enough to make him think he’s winning.
Then I drop low and sweep his legs.
He jumps, but I’m already too close when he lands, with my blade at his throat.
Silence snaps tight around us. Someone lets out a low breath.
“Two,” I say quietly.
He stills, surprise flickering across his face. Then he leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of him, letting my blade press more firmly against his throat.
“Impressive, little fox.” He says it barely above a whisper with his lips brushing my ear, like he’s been holding it in since the moment I walked in.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid at the name. Traitorous heat moves through me first, before I lock it down. Because I know, with cold sinking certainty, that this just became much more dangerous.
I step back first, creating space before the moment sharpens into something I can’t manage.
Then a voice cuts through the yard.
“Ryewood.”
The world tightens. Everyone shifts at once, spines straightening, chatter snapping off mid-word, and boots finding their proper angles.
The King stands at the edge of the ring, too close, as if he’s been here long enough to see more than I meant to show.
His gaze is on me, evaluating and measuring.
“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” the King says mildly, like he’s not weighing my worth.
I open my mouth, but Grier steps in first, and I feel it like a hand at my back.
“This is Gemira,” he says, sounding every bit the Commander. “The swordmaster Finn recommended.”
The King’s focus stays on me.
“Interesting eyes,” he murmurs. “Where did you say you were from?”
My pulse tries to climb, but I force it down.
“Terrath, Your Majesty.”
The King studies me, then he looks back to Grier. “Do you truly believe she can prepare my son for something as dangerous as the trials?”
“She beat me,” Ryewood says, stepping between us. “Twice.”
The King’s attention snaps to him.
“She beat you because you were clearly distracted, Ryewood. I could see it from across the yard.” It’s a public correction dressed as a casual observation.
Finn’s voice cuts in, careful but edged. “She’s incredibly skilled, Your Majesty. One of the best fighters I’ve ever seen.”
The King draws a slow breath in through his nose, then smiles, like a man offering a compromise.
“Then I’m sure you won’t mind a demonstration. For my own peace of mind, let’s see if she can match our most talented guard,” he says, gesturing toward the ring. It’s framed as courtesy, but we both know it’s an order.
Finn’s eyes cut to mine, the kind of look we’ve spent years perfecting. Not long enough for anyone else to read it. Just enough for me to answer. I give him the smallest nod. Do it.
“Gladly,” I say, knowing it’s the only acceptable answer.
We step into the ring, and Finn settles into his stance the same way he has our entire lives.
He strikes first, fast and precise, a clean testing line meant to look convincing without escalating.
I let myself lose half a step, let the blade pass close enough to be believable, and then I turn it.
Not a block, but a redirection, a theft of momentum.
Finn adjusts instantly, like he expected it. Good.
He presses again with a combination he uses on recruits, efficient and contained. I slip inside it and tap his ribs. The kind of point that looks like luck to anyone not paying attention.
Murmurs start.
Finn steps back and resets, and when he comes forward again, there’s a shift. Because if we make this too neat, it looks staged and suspicious. So Finn gives the yard what it expects. A fight.
Steel rings sharper now, faster. Finn comes at me with the version of himself no one in Terrath survives. I meet him, but I let him take ground so the watching eyes can relax into their assumptions.
Then I break the rhythm. A feint that isn’t a feint. A step that shouldn’t fit. A strike at an angle the yard doesn’t teach.
Finn reads it anyway, like always, but reading doesn’t mean stopping it.
I slide past his guard, and my blade finds his throat.
The yard holds, suspended, like it’s waiting to see what comes next.
The King’s voice cuts through it.
“Well then, it seems Finn wasn’t exaggerating,” he says with false amusement.
I incline my head. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
His eyes linger on me a moment longer, measuring me behind that careful expression, before he turns away.
“A word, Commander.”
And just like that, it’s over. Not because he’s satisfied, but because whatever he’s decided isn’t something he’ll do here. Not with this many eyes.
Finn steps away, talking to Hayes.
I wipe sweat from my brow and turn—
Ryewood is already there, closer than I expected, and I feel his warmth before I’ve had time to prepare for it.
He studies me openly, the charm set aside for something more honest, like he’s adding something new to everything he already thought he knew.
“So,” I say coolly. “What happens now?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His mouth curves like he enjoys that I didn’t pretend.
“Are you going to turn me in? Or do we pretend you didn’t just figure out who I am?”
Concern flashes across his face.
“No,” he says, plain and unguarded. “Of course not.”
“Why not?”
He holds my gaze and lets the silence stretch.
“Because I don’t want you to vanish again.” The words are light, but the admission isn’t.
His expression shifts, like he’s testing whether he’s allowed to continue.
“I finally get you in the daylight, and I’m not in a hurry to lose you.”
My whole body leans toward him before I can pull it back.
“I’d rather see what trouble you cause next,” he says quietly. “Preferably where I can watch.”
It’s a risk, and we both know it. But before I can answer, Grier’s voice cuts across the yard.
“Gemma. You’re done for today.” His tone is wrong, far too formal. He’s already turning toward the castle. I catch up, and he speaks without looking at me. “You’re not to train the princes again without me or Finn present.”
My stomach drops.
“Is that the King’s order?”
Grier doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. I follow him. When we near the castle, he finally speaks.
“You shouldn’t have drawn his eye,” he says, his voice laced with fear.
I glance back to the yard. Whatever this place was going to let me be, unseen or unremarkable, that door just closed. I just made everything harder for her and put her at even more risk.