Chapter Twenty-Three
Ronan stood alone in the library, the ghost of Clía’s kiss still on his lips.
With Domhnall’s engagement official, somehow hope had begun to creep in. Hope that fractured at the sight of her walking out the door.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she secretly did love Domhnall and was hiding the hurt over his betrothal. Maybe she was still set on winning him back. But holding her—it was the most right he had ever felt.
He needed to think, to set his mind straight.
Ronan wasn’t naive to romance—there had been an occasional person before Clía.
A man he trained with for a time, a visiting lísoir he spent a few weeks getting to know—but any past dalliances were fleeting and rare.
He never found himself thinking twice about them once it was over.
He certainly never found himself longing for someone he had no claim to.
Ronan cared for her—he wouldn’t deny it anymore. However, he didn’t have to act on it. The reasons keeping them apart far outnumbered any reasons to pull her close.
She was the princess of álainndore, and he was a Scáilcan guard. He could offer nothing to her, or her kingdom, not when she so desperately needed a favorable alliance. That kiss—it would have to be the last.
It was less than he wanted.
It was more than he should have.
***
RONAN TRIED TO DISTRACT HIMSELF, TAKING COMFORT IN the sounds of clashing metal. It was a melody he had known his whole life. It was the closest thing he knew to home.
Soon, maybe he would feel that way about Caisleán.
For years, he had been constantly working toward bigger things. But he’d made it to his goal. He’d been allowed to stay. Kordislaen let him stay.
Ronan should be thinking about that, not last night.
Still, even when he could focus on his accomplishment, it wasn’t the escape he hoped it would be.
He never had thought beyond what he would do after meeting Kordislaen again.
It had been a distant dream, but now that it had happened, he wasn’t sure what to make of himself.
He had pushed himself, fought, and bled for this. And now it was done. What was left?
All he knew was how to keep going. Keep working, training, trying.
So he fell into the familiar rhythm.
He kept going.
“I feel unloved—you’ve barely even spoken to me,” Kían said, grabbing their sword from where it had fallen when Ronan disarmed them.
Ronan adjusted his grip, readying himself for another round. “We’re here to train, not talk.”
“You seem to talk an awful lot to Clía when you two train together.” Ronan knocked them back a little harder than necessary, and they grinned. “Someone’s in a mood today. Does it have anything to do with why Clía invited me to train with you this morning? I must say, the request surprised me.”
With a quick flick of Ronan’s wrist, Kían’s sword flew behind them. Kían rolled their eyes, running back to grab it. They might have been surprised by Clía’s decision, but Ronan wasn’t. She had been avoiding him since last night.
Her silence knocked him off-balance. He found himself waiting to hear her laugh, looking for her encouraging smile. He didn’t know how, but he had come to rely on it. On her.
He couldn’t say that to Kían.
“No one is ‘in a mood,’” Ronan said when Kían returned, keeping his tone neutral. “And it’s good to change opponents. See how other people fight.”
They raised a suspicious brow. “If you say so. Well, unfortunately for you, you will have to make do without my presence soon. I trust you’ll take care of MacCraith in my absence. I’m afraid my dear friend will be so bored without me.”
Ronan looked toward where MacCraith was gathering his gear after finishing his training with Clía. A shred of guilt always appeared when he saw him, for reporting him to Kordislaen.
“You leave soon?” Ronan asked.
“Two days’ time. But don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it. I can’t have everyone missing me.” They winked.
Laughter came from the other side of the arena, drawing Kían’s attention. The corners of their mouth, previously pulled into a mocking smile, softened into something more tentative. More true. Ronan followed their gaze to where Sárait and Clía sat on the stands, smiling and talking.
The early morning lit Clía’s hair gold. It flowed down her back, burning against the pink of her blouse. As soft and vibrant as the petals of the firecress.
She turned, catching his stare. He knew he should look away. But he couldn’t.
The sound of Kían’s sword sliding into its sheath drew him back to himself.
“I must be off. Niall, are you coming with me?” they called, eyes sneaking one last glance in the direction of Sárait and Clía.
MacCraith nodded, falling in step beside them.
Ronan stood there for a moment. He always walked back with Clía—but she was enjoying her time with Sárait. He didn’t want to interrupt that.
He made his way out of the arena alone.
Until a voice called out from the entrance.
“Ronan!” Domhnall chased after him.
“Domhnall.” Ronan kept walking.
“I see you haven’t wavered in your training.”
Ronan stopped, and Domhnall collided into his shoulder. “Is my training really what you wish to talk about?”
The prince sighed, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “I guess now that you have your princess to occupy you, you’re done with me.”
“She’s not my princess,” Ronan said. “She’s not my anything.”
Domhnall rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say. My point still stands. I had to wake up at first light for the chance to talk to you.”
Ronan sent him a sharp look. “Well, you can talk to me now. What is it?”
“My father has written. Niamh and I will be wed come summer.” Domhnall’s tone was straightforward, if not tired. He didn’t seem to feel joy at the thought of his impending marriage.
“Congratulations, then,” Ronan said. “I hope your marriage is a happy one.”
It was the truth. As much as he was angry at Domhnall, he couldn’t help but wish for the best for the man he grew up with.
Domhnall nodded. “As do I.”
Ronan began to leave Domhnall behind when he heard the prince’s voice call out once more.
Frustrated, he turned back to Domhnall and let himself demand the answers he hoped Domhnall would share on his own. “Was it a coincidence that we came to Caisleán at the same year as your future bride?”
“No,” Domhnall replied, jaw clenched.
“How long had you been planning this? You acted as if coming here was the culmination of our years of work, that it would be about us getting the training we always dreamed of. But I probably didn’t even factor into the equation, did I?
” Ronan let the anger and hurt of the past few months finally surface.
“For years, I considered you a brother, yet you never let me in on your plans.”
Domhnall softened ever so slightly, as if just realizing the effects of his actions on his friend. “You are family to me, but there are some things I must keep to myself.”
Ronan scoffed, eyes hardening into stone.
“If this is how you treat family, I worry about your friends. Except, I’ve seen how you treated Clía.
The games you played. Giving her and her kingdom no warning before backing out of the betrothal.
Constantly trying to convince her to go home and attempting to manipulate her when it didn’t work. ”
The prince bristled. “Are you really going to let a girl come between us?”
“I’m not letting anything happen. It’s your actions that have led to this, that revealed to me a side of you that is selfish and cruel.”
Domhnall’s fists balled at his sides. “You don’t understand. I’m only doing what must be done.”
“You think I don’t understand duty? Sacrifice? It’s all I’ve ever known. But I don’t prolong the suffering of others to spare myself pain. I don’t relish causing harm, no matter how necessary. It’s cowardly and spiteful.”
Ronan took one last look at the prince, chest heaving with indignant rage, before turning back to the castle. This time, Domhnall didn’t call after him.
***
WHEN RONAN FOUND CLíA OUTSIDE HIS ROOM, WAITING TO walk together to their meeting, restlessness from his argument with Domhnall was still coursing through him. The moment his eyes fell on her, it was dulled into something more eager, if not anxious.
Was her presence here a peace offering? A way of moving on, continuing as normal, as friends? Or was it a brief respite before she continued avoiding him?
The thought filled him with dread, and he knew he couldn’t stay silent. He was done acting like there was nothing between them—he didn’t know what it meant, but confronting Domhnall had offered him relief. Discussing this should as well—for both of them.
They made their way toward the western wing, and once there was no one else in the hall with them, Ronan wrapped his fingers around her elbow, pulling her into an alcove.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
In the shadowy hideaway, he could make out the confusion in her eyes.
“We need to talk,” he replied.
Her eyes narrowed. “No, we don’t.”
She started to walk away, but he didn’t let go of her arm.
His grip was light—ready to fall away under the slightest pressure, but she must have decided to stay.
Turning back to him, her eyes closed as she took a breath.
When they opened again, he didn’t see the Clía he had grown accustomed to these past few months. He saw the princess. The mask.
“We shouldn’t talk. That—it was a mistake,” she finally said.
The words cut through him despite knowing she had a reason for saying them.
She continued. “None of us can afford to get distracted right now, and that’s all this would be.”