Chapter Thirty-Six
Caisleán Cósta’s spires peeked over the horizon, sending a wave of relief through Ronan.
It had been hours since he last rested. He’d stopped once when he had put enough distance between himself and Kordislaen, and that was only to refill his canteen at a spring he found and wrap his gash so he could continue his trek. He couldn’t remember when he last ate. But he made it.
He knew he needed to go to Draoi Griffin. To find whoever was in charge in Kordislaen’s absence and start making plans, but his feet took him down the familiar hall to the study.
To Clía.
As he turned the corner, he was stopped by a person in his path.
Niamh stood several feet away. Before he could say a word, her sword was drawn.
“Was I right about you”—she stepped closer—“or do I need to kill you?”
“Is Clía still here? I need to see her. I need to tell her—I have information. I can help us win this fight.” Ronan’s throat burned as he spoke.
The warrior’s eyes narrowed, but she lowered her blade.
“I knew I was right. You look like a mess. Is that blood all yours?” He stared blankly, and she sighed.
“I’ll take you to Clía, but only after you take care of your injuries and eat something.
You’re swaying on your feet. You’re no use to anyone dead. ”
She gestured for him to sit and then vanished, returning a few minutes later with a healer and a bowl filled to the brim with soup. He had emptied the bowl before he could even taste it. Its warmth settled in him, beating back the chill that had slithered into his bones.
The healer, a man with dark skin and cropped hair, kneeled in front of him. He removed the makeshift bandage Ronan had made from his shirt and began the process of stitching him up. Ronan didn’t flinch as the needle pierced his skin.
Niamh watched, holding a plate of meat and bread. “You get this when you tell me what happened.”
Ronan didn’t waste a moment. He ran through the events of the last day—his conversation with Kordislaen, the Tinelann camp, Chief Cuilinn.
Knowing Ronan would do everything to warn Caisleán, Tinelann might be changing their approach, but Kordislaen was also arrogant.
In which case he might hold to the plans Ronan had heard.
As Ronan’s words began to fade, Niamh passed him the plate.
The healer secured his final stitch and then rewrapped Ronan’s side. “You’re lucky it didn’t go any deeper,” he said. “It’ll be sore for the next few days, and you’ll need to change the wrapping often, but you’ll survive.”
The words sent a wave of relief through Ronan. This wouldn’t hold him back in the fight to come.
“Thank you,” Ronan whispered as the healer turned to leave. Niamh didn’t speak again until he finished his second plate of food.
“Follow me,” she said, beckoning him into the depths of the castle. “Clía’s this way.”
There was no time or energy for him to question her newfound friendship with Clía. There were too many other pressing concerns.
Niamh finally stopped in front of a small door down in the tunnels under the castle.
He recognized it. This was where Clía and Sárait would work on their project.
He had visited them there a couple of times while they sewed together, although they were always quick to declare him a distraction and send him away.
The moment Niamh opened the door, all thoughts other than those surrounding the person sitting at the worktable in the far corner of the room left Ronan’s mind.
She sat in dedicated focus, stitching a garment on her lap.
Her blond hair fell down her back in soft waves.
The light reflected off the strands with an otherworldly glow—a firecress in full bloom.
She had the posture of a queen, despite the late hour surely wearing on her strength.
She didn’t notice them enter. She didn’t even look up until Niamh whispered something in her ear. Ronan couldn’t hear what was said, but when she turned to see him, his chest caught on fire. He felt untethered, unable to reach the ground.
“You’re here,” he said. Relief breathed through him.
He didn’t know how worried he had been until he saw her safe in front of him.
Her eyes shone. “I never left.”
Ronan wanted to run to her. To take her in his arms, assure himself that she was okay, that she was here.
He didn’t understand when it happened, but somehow in the months they’d known each other, she had become the most important person in his life.
But the memory of their last conversation sent him plummeting back to earth.
The grin that had slowly crept onto his face fell, and the tension rose.
“After we . . . Well. I was worried about you,” he said finally.
“You’re the one who disappeared,” she whispered, something crossing her face before she schooled it into practiced politeness. Her mask was back, the one he hadn’t seen on her in months. He didn’t know what to do about it.
Niamh took this moment to speak up. “My presence here is clearly not needed. I’ll be back.”
Nodding, Clía cleared her throat. “Thank you.” With that, Niamh left them in the room alone, sending one withering glance at Ronan before closing the door behind her. He was used to her distrust, but this disdain was new.
A beat of silence. Then Clía spoke. “You went with Kordislaen.”
Ronan didn’t know if it was a question or an accusation.
“I did,” he admitted. “That mission—we barely made it out of that forest alive. I needed to learn his plans, gather more information.”
“You mean like he had you do with the other warriors? With me?”
Ronan’s heart stopped. “I never told him anything about you. I would never betray you like that.”
She was across the room, but the distance between them felt like an ocean. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”
“You’re supposed to trust me.”
Her gaze fell.
All the energy he’d been forcing himself to maintain these past few days left him with a sigh. He was tired. He was in pain. And he felt more alone than before.
As he shifted his weight, another shock raced through him—that crushing feeling in his bones that he knew all too well. He winced.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, standing and cautiously stepping toward him.
He leaned against the door, rubbing at his knee with his palm as if he could massage away the ache.
“I had been going for runs before I left. To distract my mind. Then there was my exit from Kordislaen’s camp.
All of that running, that fighting—I knew it could make the pain worse. Now I’m paying the price.”
“And that’s it?” She sent a pointed look to his side, where his shirt had ridden up enough to reveal the edge of his bandage.
“Kordislaen got a hit in, which probably didn’t help. A healer looked it over, though. It’s fine,” he reassured her.
She hovered near him, hands fluttering by her side.
But concern was quickly replaced with anger.
“If you weren’t so frequently close to death, I would kill you myself,” she muttered.
“You kept pushing yourself, ignoring your limits, and risking your life. You knew you were already in pain, and that if you survived, you would be making your pain worse. In a time of war.”
“I won’t be defined by the pain. I won’t let it hold me back, not when I’m needed—when I can make a difference,” he argued.
“What we need is for you to be okay,” she insisted, shaking her head. “Pushing yourself beyond your limits isn’t brave. It’s stupidity. Your pain does not make you lesser. What worries me is your careless regard for your own health.
“You could have stayed back. Gotten help. We could have formed a group and trailed the general. You didn’t need to risk yourself and worsen your pain. You don’t have to do everything alone.”
Hazel eyes held his, fierce and unrelenting. Her words settled between them.
He knew he had taken a risk, one he might come to regret, but he’d still gone with Kordislaen. Was it courage, or spite? Either way, he was left hurt in the end.
She softened. “It’s okay to have limits. We all do. It’s not a reflection of who you are. But when you keep pushing yourself, despite knowing you shouldn’t, you’re only hurting yourself and those who care about you.”
He had been so determined to win the fight his body had begun that he didn’t consider that perhaps the cost was too high. That he was affecting others—and himself—in ways he never wanted.
He promised her he would try. He promised himself.
Another sigh fell from him. “You’re right,” he whispered. “We owe ourselves empathy. It’s all we can control.”
“I’m usually right.” She smiled. A tentative truce. “I hope Kordislaen came out of that fight looking worse.”
He thought of the general, bleeding on the ground in that forest. When Ronan left, he was still breathing. “He did, but . . . I couldn’t kill him.”
He watched as understanding dawned on her face.
Her palm came to rest on his chest, the touch soft and caring, but her eyes were pained.
Of course, it had only been days since she had killed ó Connor.
“I’m sure you’ll get another chance. However, it’ll be up to you if you want to take it. This shouldn’t have to fall to you.”
He covered her hand with his own, holding it tight against him. “Thank you.”
In the silence, the air between them grew still and tense. There was still one thing left to address.
Clía stepped back. “I owe you an apology. After ó Connor, and my conversation with Kordislaen—” Her hair fell in front of her eyes, hiding them from him. “I trust you. More than anyone. It wasn’t that I doubted you; I doubted myself. And I pulled away.”
Ronan stopped her. “I should be the one apologizing. In that moment, you needed space, and I kept pushing.” He fell quiet for a second. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”