21. Ryewood
Ryewood
She’s back.
I see her the moment I step into the training yard, and my heart slams against my ribs so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack them.
A week without seeing her, and I don’t know what’s worse. Her not being here or her being here and not being able to go to her.
She’s at the weapons rack, sorting throwing knives. Her golden skin practically glows against the pale stone walls. Her dark hair gleams with copper in the early light. I remember my hands tangled in her hair, and the ache of it nearly buckles me.
When our eyes meet, the want is unmistakable. She doesn’t hide it fast enough, and for one unguarded moment, I see everything she’s been holding back. I look away first. I have to, because if I don’t, I’ll go to her, and I can’t make things worse for her than they already are.
I feel her attention slip past me, and I don’t have to turn to know who’s behind me.
Grier walks past without a glance. His face is carved from stone, but I’ve known him long enough to read what his expression tries to hide.
There’s tension in his jaw, shadows under his eyes, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
Gemma moves to him and reaches out, her hand touching his arm, gentle and tentative.
It’s not a claim or a comfort meant for show; it’s something private and careful.
They exchange words I can’t hear. His head dips toward hers, and she says something that makes his whole body sag like whatever he’s been holding up finally got too heavy.
Then he pulls her into a hug, long and tight, the kind that says more than words ever could.
Jealousy flashes and dies just as fast. This isn’t a contest. No one here is winning.
They’re both broken, and the way they hold onto each other isn’t romance, but survival.
Grier is one of my only true friends. He’s had my back more times than I can count.
And watching him cling to her like she’s the only thing keeping him upright guts me.
They pull apart slowly. Grier brushes her wrist, then steps back, and his commander mode slides into place. But I saw what was underneath, and I won’t forget it.
Gemma straightens, and when she turns toward the group, she’s the swordmaster again, professional and composed.
The pain doesn’t leave her; it just gets buried.
I want to go to her and pull her into my arms. That’s the worst part: the fact that she needs someone, and I have to stand here and pretend I’m not that person.
“Knife throwing today,” she announces.
Movement catches my eye. Voss is approaching, crossing from the atrium, unhurried and deliberate. He stops at the edge of the yard with his hands clasped behind his back and watches. Gemma goes rigid beside me, her body registering the threat before she smooths it away.
“Grab your blades. We’re riding out,” she calls over her shoulder. “We need more room than these walls can give us.”
She isn’t talking about the training. She’s talking about these walls and about who’s watching from inside them.
The group moves out. Hayes and Rosie drift together, and Finn hooks an arm around Grier’s shoulder. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I recognize the light tone, trying to pry loose what he’s carrying. The same treatment he gave me.
Gemma walks ahead. A couple of guards linger near the armory doors, pretending not to watch her. They’ve never been posted there before; they’re clearly here for her. Gemma doesn’t look at them, but her pace subtly shifts anyway.
I want to walk beside her. I want to tell her she’s not alone in this, that I would do anything, risk anything, to keep her safe. But I know I’m the reason the guards are there in the first place.
We reach the horses and ride out. The moment the castle starts to fall behind us, she loosens.
She glances over her shoulder, and I feel the pull of her gaze but don’t answer it.
I keep my horse back, holding the distance.
But she lets hers slow, just enough that I end up beside her anyway, and I don’t have the strength to fall back twice.
“Bet you thought you’d gotten rid of me,” she says, aiming for teasing, but the words come out tight, like she had to dig them up from somewhere buried. It breaks something in me, seeing her have to try this hard.
“Please,” I say. “You’d miss me too much. Who else would happily let you wipe the floor with them on a daily basis?”
“Happily?” she says. “Is that what you call all the whining?”
“I wasn’t whining. I was providing a live commentary of my humiliation. You’re welcome. The yard deserves to know exactly which move made me eat dirt. I’m generous like that.”
“Ryewood, the benevolent leader,” she says, shaking her head, but there’s warmth in it now.
There’s the teasing edge back in her voice, and her eyes hold mine longer than they need to. She’s reaching for me, testing whether I’ll reach back. Ryewood. Not Rye. My chest aches with how badly I want to meet her there.
“I’ve been workshopping others,” I say, keeping my tone light and careful. “Ryewood, the Perpetually Disarmed. Ryewood, the Finder of the Ground.”
A laugh slips out of her, small and surprised. The sound lands hard, but I don’t chase it or try to earn another.
“So,” I say, straightening in my saddle, letting the warmth drain from my voice. “Where should I expect to embarrass myself today? Somewhere scenic, I hope?”
The shift is immediate; she feels it and schools her expression.
“Just past Terrath’s borders,” she says evenly. “Eastern side of Millhaven. There’s open space there for distance work.”
“Sounds perfect.”
She nods.
The loss of her lightness guts me, but I don’t try to get another laugh out of her. I just ride and hold the line.
When Millhaven comes into view, a clearing opens wide beyond the road, ringed by thick oaks with trunks broad enough to serve as targets.
Gemma moves through the space, pulling a knife from her belt and marking targets into bark with quick, efficient slashes. X after X carved into the wood.
“Line up,” she calls. “Arm’s length apart.”
We shuffle into position. Hayes and Rosie on one end, already standing close together.
Finn’s next to me, twirling a blade between his fingers like it’s an extension of his hand.
Grier takes up the far end, as far from Gemma as he can get while still being part of the group.
I catch his eye for a moment, and there’s no hostility there, no competition. Just the line we’re both holding.
“We’re working on distance today,” Gemma says. “Most of you are competent at close range, and in real combat, you don’t always get close range.”
She paces in front of us, knife loose in her grip.
“Forty feet, fifty, sixty. That’s where it counts; that’s where most people miss.”
She turns without warning and throws. The blade flies in a blur and sinks dead center into an X on a tree that has to be sixty feet away.
Finn whistles low. “Show off.”
“Your turn,” she says smugly.
He grins, steps forward, and throws in one fluid motion. It lands a hair’s breadth from hers.
“Not bad,” Gemma says with a hint of a smirk. “For a warm-up.”
“Oh, it’s like that? All right, then.” Finn pulls another blade.
They trade throws. Knife after knife, each one landing with a deadly precision, pushing the other farther, faster, at more impossible angles. It’s like watching a conversation in steel that they both somehow know. The rest of us just watch.
Hayes looks toward me. “Should we even bother?”
“I’m feeling very average right now,” I mutter.
“Unusually self-aware today, Rye,” Finn says, grinning without turning.
“Watching you two has a way of humbling a man,” I shoot back.
“Good, humility suits you.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Now, let’s see what you’ve got, Princeling.”
Gemma steps back, gesturing toward the targets.
Hayes steps up and throws, the blade landing near the X, solid and respectable.
“All right, Ryewood, your turn,” Gemma says. “Impress me.”
Two words. That’s all it takes for my mouth to go dry. I’ve trained with masters, thrown blades in rain and dark, I can hit a target blindfolded. But with her watching me, my palms are slick like it’s the first knife I’ve ever held.
I set my stance, adjust my grip, loosen my fingers, and throw. The blade sails wide, misses the tree entirely, and disappears into the bushes.
Silence follows. Then Gemma laughs, surprised and bright, the kind that crinkles the corners of her eyes. And I laugh, too, at myself, at the absurdity of it.
“You really shouldn’t put unnecessary pressure on me, Gemma,” I say, shaking my head. “I clearly can’t handle it.”
“Clearly,” she says, still laughing. “Go find your knife, Ryewood.”
I trudge into the bushes, retrieve it, and come back with a grin I can’t kill.
Finn shakes his head. “You know, Rye, no one should be that pleased about missing the entire fucking tree.”
Gemma laughs again, easier this time. Like she’s remembering how to do it.
I glance across the clearing. Grier stands with his arms crossed, his gaze catching mine, steady and unyielding. A reminder I shouldn’t need. I let the laugh die where it is and drag every wall back up. Guilt washes over me. I’m already slipping, already forgetting what my attention costs her.
“Well,” Gemma says, crossing toward me, shaking her head like she’s scolding me, but there’s a hint of a smile. “You clearly didn’t listen to anything I said. Give me your arm.”
I hesitate, then hold my arm out, stiff and too formal to be anything else.
She takes it, and her thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, deliberate in a way that has nothing to do with instruction.
She holds my gaze, waiting, and I don’t give her anything back.
Her eyes flick away, and I see the hurt land before she hides it.
“Release happens here,” she says, adjusting my wrist. Her voice is steady, but the warmth is gone.
I nod and step back, and the space between us snaps shut.
Guilt hits sharp and immediate, but I keep the distance.
It’s better than what comes if I don’t. The rest of the session passes, and I don’t let myself look at her more than I have to.
Every time I do, I have to make the same choice all over again, and it gets harder each time.
The ride back stretches in front of us, hooves beating a steady rhythm into the streets of Terrath.
Our conversation thins, and the group draws in as we approach.
I know before I see it what we’re approaching.
The air feels different, like the ground has been pulled taut.
A platform stands in the center of the market, stone shaped too clean with no scaffolding or seams, just risen straight out of the earth from magic, his magic.
My father stands at the center in full regalia, the version of himself meant for crowds. Voss stands at his left with guards flanking them perfectly placed. His voice carries across the market in that tone that stills people, and I pick up what he’s saying.
“Allowing more to enter this year,” he says, voice commanding.
Finn’s shoulders tense beside me.
“There will be more chances for those of common blood to rise.”
More. The word catches and won’t let go. More competitors in the trials, in the year I go through the arch into the Weeping Woods.
“There will be more competitors and more glory to be earned,” he continues.
I draw in a breath, and it feels thin, like I didn’t get enough of it.
“I’m accepting volunteers. Those brave enough to take the chance.”
Brave, not desperate or expendable, brave. People step forward, and I watch them move toward the stage like they’re being offered something worth wanting.
“He’s expanding the trials,” Grier says behind us, his voice low and tight in a way that only people who know him would recognize as fury.
I spent my whole life looking for proof that he gave a damn. This is my answer. He’s expanding the trials my year. My hands tighten on the reins until my knuckles ache. Beside me, Finn’s jaw ticks, and his hands fiddle with the reins.
Grier rides closer to him. “You’re still the best fighter in this realm,” he says quietly. “This doesn’t change that.”
But we all know the odds just did.
My father is taking oaths now; people are kneeling in front of him and swearing themselves into a death sentence.
Two figures near the back catch my eye. A boy and a girl, so young, neither could be older than twenty.
Siblings from the look of them, with the same sharp cheekbones carved from hunger.
They hold hands as they step forward, and the girl keeps her chin raised high, but her hands are shaking.
The boy looks at her, and I recognize that look.
The one that says I’ll die before I let anything happen to you.
They kneel together, and my father takes their oaths without even looking at their faces.
I look away and find Hayes, whose eyes are already locked on me. I see the same fury I’m swallowing down, burning. My father is still talking, still smiling, still playing benevolent king. As if staying in power is worth the chance I won’t come back.
We move away, back toward the castle. Gemma is up ahead and hasn’t said anything, but I can feel cold anger radiating off her. She slows deliberately, dropping back until she’s alongside me.
“He just made the trials more lethal,” she says under her breath.
“Yeah.”
“Did you know he—” She stops and swallows. “You and Finn—”
“We’ll make it out,” I say, needing her to believe it even if I don’t.
She looks at me, and I see it, fear written plainly across her face, stripped of everything else. She just realized what I’ve known for longer than I would like to admit. My father will let me die if it serves him.
Cold settles into my chest. If this is what he does to his own blood, I can’t afford to let him see what she is to me. I realize with a bone-deep certainty that the distance I’ve been holding isn’t nearly enough.