Chapter 7 Cassiel #2
See. Fight. Defend myself. Learn. I let out a sharp breath. “Work out where you are, for one.”
The faint sound of feet shifting against stone follows a long pause. “Of course you can,” she says. “You found your sister in your room.”
“I told you, she—”
“Giggles, yes. But she wasn’t giggling right then. And you found me too, if you recall.”
My cheeks heat. Saints, I wish I couldn’t. Damn those thighs.
My fingers flex around the quarterstaff.
“I was silent,” she continues. “I’m always silent. So that begs the question, prince—how did you find me?”
I hesitate, remembering that moment—the way my senses strained in the dark. “I could hear your breathing.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“I could… I could sense something. Body warmth, maybe. The way the air changed around you.”
Another pause. Then the softest rustle of fabric, like she’s folding her arms. “As much as I hate to admit it, you have good instincts.”
Something whistles through the air. I barely react in time. A sharp strike glances off my ribs and I flinch, lifting the quarterstaff too late to block.
“Which you need to learn to trust,” Thornvale adds, already stepping lightly out of reach.
I straighten and set my jaw, clutching my side. “I hate you.”
She laughs—bright and wicked. “Good. Now come find me.”
There’s not even time to take a breath before she strikes again. The quarterstaff cuts through the air. I lift mine just in time to defend, but I’m too slow, too weak. The impact jolts through my arms and I stagger, my grip tightening.
“Hold your position,” she says, circling. Her voice moves—from in front of me to the side. Her footsteps are maddeningly quiet. “Don’t move. Listen. Wait for my attack.”
Another hit—my thigh this time. Not hard, but enough to make me curse. I shift, gritting my teeth. My heart thuds loud in my ears. I can do this. I just need to—
Another strike. My ribs again. I barely register it before she moves, quick as shadow, and sweeps at my legs. I stumble but catch myself, raising my staff just in time to block the next blow. Our weapons crack together, wood rasping on wood. For a moment, it feels like I’m gaining ground—
She pivots. Her staff knocks mine aside with ease. Another hit—my shoulder. A sharp tap at my knee. I bite down a frustrated growl.
“This isn’t sparring,” I snap. “This is just you hitting me.”
“You’d rather I let you win?” There’s clear amusement in her voice. “You wouldn’t learn anything.”
Another hit lands against my side. I gasp, twisting to absorb the blow. She isn’t holding back—not really—but she’s pushing me. Forcing me to feel. To listen. To react.
I swing, desperate—but she’s already gone.
“You’re thinking too much,” she says from behind me.
“You’re not giving me time to think.”
“Good. Thinking will get you killed.”
“Thinking will keep you alive.”
“Not here, it won’t.”
She strikes again—and this time, instinct takes over. I shift, catching her blow with my staff. The force rattles through my bones, but I hold firm. I push back.
Silence. A pause.
Then, she chuckles. “Better.”
I let out a sharp breath, steadying myself. My whole body aches, arms burning, but beneath the exhaustion, something stirs—something dangerously close to pride.
Then she hits me again.
I’m already breathing hard, sweat clinging to my collar, but I refuse to give in. I adjust my stance, grip tightening around the quarterstaff as I listen for her next move. My pulse thuds in my ears.
Footsteps. Quick. Light. Too late.
A sharp strike clips the back of my knee and I stumble, cursing under my breath. Another blow lands against my side—firm, not cruel—and suddenly my weapon’s out of my hands, clattering uselessly to the floor.
Thornvale steps back. “That’s a match.”
I scowl, rubbing at my ribs. “That’s not fair,” I mutter. “You have a significant advantage.”
For a moment, there’s silence. Then she laughs. “Do I?”
Before I can snap back, she grabs my hand and pulls me upright. Her hand doesn’t leave mine when I’m standing. Instead, she lifts it to her face. My fingers brush against fabric, tied snugly over her eyes.
My breath catches. “You’re wearing a blindfold?”
“You only just noticed?” Her voice drips with amusement.
“How did you—?” How did you beat me so thoroughly without being able to see me?
“The same way you will,” she says simply. “With practice.”
I’m stunned into silence. All those times I hesitated. All those times I told myself I was useless without sight. And here she is, moving like smoke, striking like lightning—and she’s done it all blind. Just to make a point.
She squeezes my hand once before letting go.
“You rely too much on your eyes,” she says. “Even now. But they aren’t what make you strong.”
I exhale, tilting my head towards her. “Then what does?”
“Your mind. Your instincts. Your ability to adapt.” She taps two fingers lightly against my temple. “And that is something I can teach you.
I let her words settle. “How do you know all this?” I ask quietly.
“One of my instructors was blind,” she says. “Didn’t seem to bother her the way it bothers you—but then, she had longer to adapt.”
I try to imagine it—a blind woman teaching the sighted to fight. No wonder Thornvale’s so ruthless. No wonder my mother was impressed.
Is it really possible? To fight like her? To walk freely again, unaided? To teach, to lead—
To be useful?
She doesn’t give me time to think. She shoves the quarterstaff back into my hands.
“Again,” she says.
We spar for what feels like forever. Time is a hard thing for me to track at the best of times, but I lose all sense of it now. Entire days seem to pass. My muscles are on fire, my breath ragged with every exchange, but still Thornvale presses me—relentless, unyielding.
I don’t win. Of course I don’t. But I manage to block a few of her attacks. I even catch the quarterstaff when she throws it at me—not gracefully, but still. I catch it. That has to count for something.
I doubt she even breaks a sweat.
Eventually, my body decides it’s done. I can’t take another hit. I can barely lift my arms, and my entire body feels hollow.
No more, I want to beg, please, no more.
I don’t give her the satisfaction of conceding, at least not in such an obvious manner. Instead, I drop the quarterstaff, letting it fall to the floor with a dull clack.
“Take me to the kitchens, Thornvale,” I declare. “I find myself hungry.”
She snorts, seeing through my obvious surrender. “Where are the kitchens?”
I frown. “You… you don’t know where the kitchens are?”
“No one exactly offered me a tour, you know. They just shoved me in with you.”
“Right, well…” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. I try to recall the layout of the courtyard from where we are. “Get us outside, and then head left. I’ll direct you from there.” I hope.
She clicks her tongue. “Bossy.”
I ignore her and hold out my hand expectantly. There’s the briefest hesitation, then she takes my arm again and starts leading me from the hall. It’s not long until we’re outside again. Thornvale’s grip on my arm is steady, but she walks faster than I’d like.
“Slower,” I mutter.
She lets out a huff but adjusts her pace. “Do you always give orders like this?”
“Do you always argue with them?”
“Only when they’re boring.”
I shake my head, sighing. “Turn left here.”
We move along the castle buildings. I’m fairly sure there’s a direct path from here to the kitchens, but strangely enough, I never thought to memorise it before. It seems far too long.
Finally, the air changes. Warmth wraps around me, carrying the scent of fresh bread, roasting meat, and hot rosemary.
“Can you find your way from here, Thornvale?” I ask.
“You know, I believe I can.”
We step through the arched doorway and the room explodes into stillness, grinding to a halt.
“Your Highness!” says a voice.
Margot. The head cook. She’s always been exceptionally kind to me.
As a boy, I used to sneak in here with Evander and ask for sweet treats all the time.
She always obliged. Evander eventually decided it was improper to ask or that it was unseemly for the Crown Prince to beg for treats and stopped coming.
I’ve brought Runara down plenty of times by myself… but not recently.
Margot rushes over, stopping in front of me. “You shouldn’t be here—no, no, you should have told me you were coming! I would have—oh, just look at you, you’re pale as a ghost! Sit down, sit down!”
I sigh as I’m manhandled into one of the heavy wooden chairs at the centre of the kitchen table. “I’m fine, Margot.”
She ignores me completely, already muttering about broth and bread and how ‘the prince must eat properly…’
I resign myself to the fuss and gesture vaguely toward Thornvale. “And get something for her, too. She’s particularly fond of peaches, if you have any.”
“For the record,” Thornvale says, sliding into the seat beside me, “although peaches are perhaps my favourite, I like all fruit. And all sweet things.”
Margot tuts. “I suppose I can spare something.” With a huff, she turns and marches off.
“And if someone could bring me an affectionate cat while we’re waiting, I would be obliged,” I say, mostly to amuse myself. “I shall settle for a dog.”
A few moments later, someone places something warm and furry in my arms. A tail curls against my thigh.
“Who’s this?” I ask.
“Ser Tim,” says a young female voice.
“Ah, Tim, excellent.” I scratch behind his ears, and he leans into my hand with a pleased purr. “And… who are you?”
“Delia,” the girl says softly.
Delia. I don’t know who that is. I’d probably seen her dozens of times before I lost my sight, but I can’t recall her face now. I don’t recognise her voice either. She’ll always be a half-stranger to me.
Like Thornvale.
I could memorise her voice, the weight of her arm in mine, the sound of her footsteps… but I’ll never see her face.
Not that I want to. She’s probably hideous.
Thornvale leans in close. “...Can I cuddle the cat?” she asks.
“No.”
I’m fairly sure she’s glaring at me now. I find I don’t care.
“Who calls a cat Ser Tim, anyway?” she asks. “Are all castle cats honorary sers, too?”
“They are if they were born whilst my father was alive.”
Thornvale goes very quiet for a moment. “Your father named the cat Ser Tim?”
“Actually, my father just made a semi-serious royal decree that all cats, valiant creatures that they are, should be styled as ser, and everyone just went along with it.”
Thornvale’s silence increases. I imagine she’s probably just mortified about insulting a dead man’s taste in names.
Serves her right.
The food arrives in a flurry of footsteps and warm, rich smells. Thornvale makes a pleased noise that stops me cold.
“Peaches?” I ask.
“Peaches,” she confirms.
I give Ser Tim a final stroke, taking a moment to marvel at his felty ears, before setting him down. I’m almost certain he winds around Thornvale’s legs for a moment before vanishing.
Traitor.
I hesitate before picking up my spoon. I don’t know what unsettles me more: the fact that she just made that sound over fruit, or the fact that I noticed it. That I noticed her. I clear my throat and focus on my meal. It smells of spiced meat.
“What’s in front of me?” I ask.
“Beef stew,” Thornvale replies. “There’s onions and carrots in it—maybe a turnip.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Brown.”
That’s hardly the picture I was hoping for, but I don’t force a better one. I’m too hungry to really care.
We eat in relative peace—well, as peaceful as it can be when Thornvale keeps making little appreciative sounds every time she hits another slice of peach.
“Control yourself,” I hiss under my breath.
“Control yourself,” she hisses back.
We fall quiet again, until she says, far too casually, “You have some on your face.”
I frown. “What?”
“You’ve got something—just there.”
“I don’t know where ‘there’ is, Thornvale!”
Before I can do anything, she reaches over and wipes her thumb along the corner of my mouth. I flinch in surprise—and then freeze completely when I hear her sucking on something.
I stare in the general direction of her voice. “Did you just eat that?” I ask, horrified.
She shrugs, chewing with clear satisfaction. “I don’t like wasting food.”
“That wasn’t food,” I say, utterly incredulous. “That was—” I wave a hand vaguely at my own face. “That was on me.”
“Still food,” she says. “You’re not dirty.”
“That is hardly the point—”
“It is the point. Why waste a perfectly good bite?”
I open my mouth. Then shut it again. I have no words. I wipe my mouth carefully and flick the napkin in her direction. “There. More for you, if you’re so inclined.”
She snorts but, mercifully, doesn’t take me up on it. Instead, she pops another peach slice into her mouth—I know because she hums again. She sounds far too happy.
I shake my head and turn back to my food, but now I eat with far more caution, hyper-aware of every spoonful, every drip, every bite of bread.
The silence stretches, almost comfortable, filled with the soft clatter of the kitchen around us. Margot bustles past, muttering about the next batch of bread needing to be checked.
Thornvale leans in again, her voice low. “You’ve got crumbs in your lap now.”
I tense immediately. “Don’t you dare.”
She chuckles around another bite of peach. “I’ll let you off this time, prince. But only because I’m full.”