Chapter 7 Cassiel
Morning finds me in the same room, in the same chair, listening to the soft rustle of paper and the distant murmur of servants changing shifts. I don’t need sight to know Thornvale is watching me, even though I know she’s pinched one of the books from my desk and ought to be reading that.
She crawled in late last night, smelling of mead and smoke and the outdoors—a grassy, floral scent that ought not to have been so strong after spending the night in a tavern. Maybe she fell in a florist’s cart on the way back. Or a ditch.
I make no attempt to ask her about her day off. The silence thickens.
Her page turns get slower and even more infrequent.
“Oh, what is it?” I bark eventually.
“When’s the last time you fought?”
Blind though I am, I blink in disbelief. Her question is the last thing I expected. “What was that?”
“I heard a rumour that you’re quite good with a blade.”
“I was,” I admit, shifting in my chair.
“You aren’t anymore? Did you lose your hands as well as your sight?”
My mouth opens, then closes. “What? No. I just—”
“Come to think of it,” she muses, undeterred, “I knew a very fierce warrior who lost both his hands in battle. He had blades tied to his wrists and still fought. So that’s hardly an excuse.”
Irritation flares, hot and sudden. “I haven’t fought since I lost my sight,” I snap. “I don’t know how.”
She hums for a moment. “You’ve got four other senses you could put to use.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Ah, of course. I forgot.”
I stiffen. “Forgot what?”
“That you’re a prince. You’re not used to a challenge.”
I go still, barely breathing. She cannot have just said that. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, everything in your life has been handed to you on a silver platter,” she says breezily. “So every little inconvenience just—”
“A little inconvenience?” My patience snaps. “Are you trying to get dismissed?”
Silence. I think—I hope—that might be the end of it. But then she says:
“Are you happy?”
I scoff. “What an idiotic question—”
“I didn’t think so.” There’s no triumph in her voice, only certainty. “You’re not happy. You don’t want to be in here. What’s the worst thing that can happen if you go outside?”
A muscle jumps in my jaw. What’s the worst thing?
Falling over. Getting hurt. Humiliating myself. Hurting others. The whispers, the constant noise, the sense of bewilderment like drowning on dry land.
Letting my family see me like this… having them watch me fail and stumble. Imagining the hurt on their faces. Hearing the pain in their voices.
“I just don’t want to make a fool of myself,” I spit. “I don’t want to fall over or get hurt or listen to whispers or…”
Thornvale goes quiet for a moment. “Have all of those things happened?”
“Most of them.”
That, I assume, will surely be the end of it. But to my dismay, she starts thinking aloud, breaking each problem down, finding a way around them with infuriating ease.
“Well, humiliating yourself is just a fact of life,” she tells me.
“No one is immune to that. I can definitely clear out a place for you to practise where no one is, though. I can’t imagine you’re that bothered about a small injury to yourself.
Hurting others—that’s a genuine fear, but if I’m the only one you’re fighting, that’s hardly an issue. ”
“That’s… no.”
As much as I dislike her, I don’t want to hurt her.
I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed hurting anyone.
Once, as a boy, I got so cross at Evander for something I can’t even remember now that I punched him hard enough to break his nose.
His scream and the sudden onslaught of blood was enough to make me snap out of whatever rage had been building. I’ve never enjoyed inflicting pain.
“Come on, Prince,” she says, voice coy, “don’t you want to knock me down a peg or two?”
Pain, no. Humiliating her? Saints, I actually think I’d enjoy that quite a lot.
But could I?
Her words poke at something I don’t want to name, about what I haven’t lost. I think of what Evander said. Can I honestly learn to fight again? It seems a ridiculous notion. I can’t aim. I’d have no idea where to strike my enemies.
And yet…
And yet…
I don’t want to be afraid for the rest of my life. I don’t want to be helpless. I want to be useful.
At the very least, I want her to shut up. If it’s a disaster, at least I’ll have something to lord over her, a reminder that I was right and she was wrong.
“Fine,” I mutter. “If only to get you to shut up.”
She claps her hands together, far too loudly. “Excellent! Let’s go!”
I exhale sharply. “Give me a moment.” I fumble for my clothes, cursing under my breath when the fastenings slip through my fingers.
Something thuds against my foot—my boots. Kicked at me, not handed. I don’t have to see her to know she’s already striding for the door.
“Are you coming?” she calls.
“You’re impatient.” I stumble toward the sound of her voice, but she’s already moving off. “Ah, Thornvale—”
“What?”
“You need to… you need to guide me.”
“Oh.”
She sounds genuinely surprised. I suppose I should be grateful that she seems to think I’m capable of getting anywhere on my own. That might be refreshing—if it weren’t so infuriating.
She comes back to my side, hovering awkwardly at my elbow. I seize her arm and tuck mine into hers. I should have brought a cane. I have one in my room. I just… I’m not used to leaving my room. Not used to relying on it.
Thornvale barrels on ahead, like a dog pawing at a door, desperate to be outside. Her gait is all over the place.
“Slow down… Saints, you’re bad at this.”
“That’s all right,” she responds. “I excel at so many other things.”
“If I fall down, it’s all your fault.”
“Scared of a little bruise, Prince?”
“Scared of a broken leg, yes.”
“Cowardly talk for a warrior.”
“I wasn’t a warrior,” I tell her, ignoring the insult.
“I thought you went with your brother into battle—”
“I went with him, yes. I didn’t usually fight. And not because I’m a coward, either. It’s because my mother has three children, and she would like to keep as many of them alive as possible. Evander has always been the fighter. I went with him to advise.”
“Advise?”
I pause for a moment, like this is revealing too much, dropping a shield that’s still perfectly usable. I don’t have to explain it to her. Not if I don’t want to. I can just tell her to shut up and—
“I’m a tactician,” I say quietly.
“Any good?”
“I was.”
I still might be of some use in that regard. That’s why Evander still comes to me for advice, after all. It’s harder now—harder to visualise a problem when I can’t visualise anything—but it’s the information that matters most. The strategy. The logic.
It’s the travelling I can’t stomach. The jostling darkness, the endless unawareness. The noises. The people. The feeling of being untethered, like I might float off the earth at any moment.
And if it comes to a fight—if battle is inevitable—how am I supposed to handle that now?
Thornvale says nothing. I wonder what she’s thinking. If I could see…
Despite her terrible assistance, we make it down the stairs and out into the courtyard.
Stepping outside for the first time in weeks is like stepping into a void.
The world tilts beneath my feet. It’s vast. Too vast. The open air, the distant clang of steel on steel, voices echoing down the corridors—it all rushes at me like a wave, threatening to pull me under.
The scent of warmed stone and fresh hay hits me, and for a dizzying moment, I half expect to fall forward, as if gravity has shifted in my absence.
I tighten my grip on Thornvale’s arm. My fingers curl into her sleeve, and I hate how much I need the contact. I don’t want her to think it’s weakness—but I can’t bring myself to let go.
Step by step, she guides me forward. Her pace is steady. Unhurried.
The sun finds my face, and I exhale, slow and careful. It’s strange, feeling the heat without the light. For a moment, I just stand still, letting it soak into my skin.
But the moment doesn’t last. Thornvale keeps moving, and I follow her, drawn along in her wake until we enter another part of the castle, and the air shifts again. Smoke. Sweat. The sharp tang of polished armour.
A door opens. We’re in the knight’s hall.
The low murmur of voices stirs an ache behind my eyes. I brace myself, trying to adjust—then her voice cuts through the noise like a blade.
“Out. All of you.”
The room goes silent in an instant. I feel the weight of their gazes pressing into me, eating up the quiet. This—this—is why I avoid leaving my chambers. The way people fall silent around me, not knowing what to say. The pity. The awkwardness. The helpless not knowing.
The knights don’t argue. They file out in a hurry. One or two linger—maybe wondering if it’s safe to leave me alone with her. Or maybe they’re just curious. I don’t know. I can’t see them. There’s no way for me to gauge their expressions.
When the door shuts, Thornvale slips away from my side. The absence is jarring. My body rocks slightly, unmoored. It reminds me of the sea, being swept out, weightless in the water. Just… adrift.
I reach for something—anything—to hold onto—just as a long, thin object slams into my chest and clatters to the floor.
“Take care!” I snap, stumbling a step back.
“Your enemies won’t.”
I grit my teeth and crouch to retrieve it. My fingers brush over polished wood. I run my hands along its length, feeling the weight, the shape.
A quarterstaff.
My grip tightens around it. “What is this?”
She sighs. “A quarterstaff. It’s—”
“I know what it is, I just—” I snap my mouth shut. Frustration curls tight in my chest. Even sighted, I don’t know how to use this weapon.
“Did you think I’d start you with a blade?”
“This isn’t going to work.” I tap the staff against the stone floor. It’s too light. Too unfamiliar. Too much.
“How do you know?”
“It just—it can’t be done. I’ll never master it.”
“Every master was once a novice.”
“I can’t—”
“Can’t what?”