Chapter 11 Cassiel
Thornvale works me into the ground for the better part of the morning.
Most of it isn’t even complicated; it’s just brutal.
Push-ups until my arms tremble, planks until my back screams, sit-ups that leave my stomach aching.
And, worst of all—running. Blind, stumbling running.
I never appreciated before how much we rely on sight to help us move in a straight line.
“Just come towards the sound of my voice,” she calls, far too cheerfully. “I won’t let you fall flat on your face.”
“You aren’t quite the desirable target you think you are, Thornvale,” I mutter.
She is relentless. I can’t believe how badly out of shape I am, how easily she bests me—how often I end up gasping for breath or sprawled on the floor. For the life of me, I don’t know why I’m letting her do it.
Because it feels good, a voice reminds me. Because feeling something is better than feeling nothing.
For what I’m sure is hours, I push myself under her watchful eye. I know it’s been most of the day because at some point, a servant—Anne, I think—appears to ask where we’ll be taking lunch.
I barely have the breath to answer. Thornvale stands over me, arms crossed, the tip of her wooden sword tapping impatiently against her boot.
I’m sprawled on the training mats, lungs burning, face dripping sweat.
Every muscle throbs. I haven’t even been struck this time; I just misjudged my footing and ended up flat on my back. Again.
“Here,” I rasp, not even bothering to lift my head.
“No,” Thornvale says. “You need a break.”
“I’m fine—”
“I will not be training you anymore today, no matter how much you order me. So either take your food upstairs, or find a new guard.”
“That’s a very tempting offer, Thornvale,” I mutter.
Her glare bores into me. “I’m smiling at you sweetly when I say this,” she begins, “but go swallow a pinecone.”
I scrunch my face in disbelief. “Go swallow a pinecone? What on—”
“It’s a Thornvale phrase.”
“Thornvale’s in a valley, isn’t it? I didn’t know it was so arborous.”
“There’s plenty of pinecones in Thornvale,” she insists. “And I will make you swallow one if you aren’t more polite.”
I’m fairly sure that Thornvale is considered very sparse in terms of trees, but I don’t press. I’ve never visited.
Anne is clearly still hovering in the doorway. The air is cooler when the door is open, and a faint breeze stirs the sweat on my skin.
“The knights will be wanting their room back,” Anne says quietly.
As if summoned, Captain Fellwood storms in. His boots hammer against the stone floor like war drums, each step louder than the last. I don’t need to see him to know he’s furious; the air practically crackles with it.
“What have you done to the prince?” he barks, voice bouncing off the high ceilings.
I wince—not at the volume, though that’s unpleasant enough—but at the pure fury in it. I’m used to the stiff formality of my guards, the way they dress up their disapproval to make it more palatable. Fellwood doesn’t bother.
Thornvale, predictably, doesn’t even seem to flinch. “Training him.”
“Training? He looks like he’s been trampled by a horse.”
I let out a breathless, wheezing laugh. “Feels that way too.”
That does nothing to improve Fellwood’s mood. I can practically hear his glare darken.
“You are overstepping, Thornvale. His Highness should not be beaten into the ground like a common recruit.”
“Then he should train harder,” Thornvale says coolly.
I choke back another laugh, smothering it before it costs me any more energy.
“You forget yourself,” Fellwood snaps.
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Thornvale says. “You asked me to keep him alive—I’m helping him to do just that.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone speak to Fellwood in such a manner. Most people treat him like a stone wall you don’t bother arguing with. Thornvale sounds like she’s discussing the weather.
Groaning, I force myself into a sitting position. Every joint in my body protests, but I manage it. “Captain,” I say, forcing some strength into my voice, “I asked for this.”
Fellwood sounds genuinely scandalised. “You asked to be humiliated?”
Well, that stings a little. “I asked to be trained,” I say, dragging a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. “And I can handle it.”
There’s a beat of silence while Fellwood tries to decide whether to keep arguing. He doesn’t like this. That much is obvious. But if Prince Cassiel is telling him he asked for this…
After a moment, he manages to shove his voice back into something closer to neutral. “The knights will be wanting their room back, Your Highness. It’s time to go.”
I sigh and shove myself the rest of the way up. My body screams in protest, but I refuse to let it show.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll take lunch upstairs.”
“I’ll escort you,” Fellwood offers, like he thinks I’m about to keel over.
“That is quite literally what you pay her for,” I say, vaguely gesturing in Thornvale’s direction. “Come, Thornvale.”
She presses my cane back into my hands and hovers at my elbow, guiding me out. We make our way back in relative silence. Only once we’re clear of the others do I mutter, “Captain Fellwood doesn’t seem to like you.”
“I know, shocking, isn’t it? Because I’m so likable,” she says.
I snort, biting back a groan as I take another few steps. Saints, everything aches. Maybe taking a break isn’t the worst idea she’s ever had.
We slip back into my chambers. Thornvale quietly takes my cane and makes some offhand comment about food already having been brought up. I drift over to the table and collapse into a chair without grace or dignity.
She hovers beside me. It occurs to me that, aside from that one strange meal in the kitchens yesterday, she never actually sits with me. Does she stand for every meal, or eat at the desk?
I suppose I only have myself to blame for that.
“Sit,” I order, kicking out the opposite chair with the toe of my boot.
She doesn’t need any further prompting. She leaps into place, digging into whatever spread is set before us.
I tilt my head slightly, frowning. She sits oddly on the chair; I can’t sense her legs beneath the table, and the direction of her voice shifts, like she’s sitting higher than she should be.
I get the impression of someone perched, light and restless.
A wren. She said that’s what people call her, didn’t she?
I reach out, searching for the food, and wince as my shoulders protest. Maybe I have overdone it.
“Progress is slow,” Thornvale says.
“Come again?”
“Progress is slow. Frustratingly slow. Annoyingly slow. But if you push yourself too much, it’ll take even longer.”
I groan, not even bothering to argue. She’s probably right. That’s the worst part.
“I was seven when I first took up the blade,” Thornvale goes on.
“Everyone else was much, much better than me by then. I was the worst. I was determined not to be. I practised until my hands bled… and then my hands were too bandaged to hold a sword. Then I was still the worst, and I struggled to feed myself. It was years until I bested anyone.”
She shifts slightly; I hear the creak of her chair. “It won’t take you years.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you’ve got me as an instructor, to begin with,” she says, with cat-like smugness. “And you aren’t starting at the bottom. I know it might feel like it, but you’re not.”
I wish I believed her. At best, all I can do is refrain from arguing.
Thornvale gets up from the table. As she passes behind me, her hand brushes my shoulder—a surprisingly gentle touch. It shouldn’t catch me off guard—she was gentle last night too, at least for a moment—but it still jars me. She feels like all hard edges. It’s strange to realise she isn’t.
Maybe, if I survive this, I’ll be hard too. I don’t know if that thought comforts or terrifies me. I don’t want to lose who I was. But if I’m honest, that person is already slipping away. Change is happening whether I want it to or not. I’m being reshaped. The only choice I have left is into what.
Thornvale has been reshaped too. Something broke in her after her mother died. I’m not sure I want to know what it was—or to know her better than I already do—because…
Well. That would be more change.
And besides, she’s going to leave eventually. There’s no point in trying to hold onto her. Eventually, she’ll be replaced by another voice in the dark.
I pick at my food as Thornvale slips into the bathroom. I hear the taps turn on—not the sink taps, the bath. They have a different sound.
“What are you doing?” I call.
“Running you a bath,” she replies, brisk and practical.
I let my head tip back against the chair, exhaustion dragging me down. A bath sounds perfect—hot water to soak the ache from my muscles, to pull some of the tension out of my bones.
I finish my meal, listening to her moving around the adjoining room and the steady rush of water filling the tub. She’s quiet, but not silent. A shift of fabric, a soft breath. She’s always there, just at the edge of hearing.
I push myself upright with a low groan and make my way towards the bathroom. Every step hurts.
“Get in before it cools,” Thornvale barks as she leaves the room.
I mutter something dark under my breath but don’t argue.
I strip carefully, trying not to pull at bruised skin, and lower myself into the water.
The heat shocks me at first; my body shivers involuntarily before settling.
I sink deeper, letting the warmth pull the pain out of me, letting it cradle the places where I hurt most.
For a long moment, I just breathe. The steam curls around me, thick and soft, filling my lungs with damp air. I let my head rest against the edge of the tub, muscles finally starting to unwind.
The door creaks open again. Something unscrews.
“Thornvale?”
“I’m here. Don’t worry, I can’t see anything.”
“What are you doing?” I rasp, my voice rough with fatigue.
“I’ve got some ointment for your bruises,” Wren says, her tone maddeningly calm.
I stiffen at that, instinct telling me to refuse. I can manage on my own. I always have. Letting someone else care for me feels… strange. But then again, she’s the one who put the bruises there in the first place. The least she can do is help.
So instead of protesting, I exhale and let my arms rest along the rim of the tub.
There’s a quiet sound as her fingers dip into something thick, followed by the cool press of ointment against my shoulder. I flinch, more from the temperature than the pain.
“Relax,” she mutters, spreading the salve over my withered muscles.
I try. Her touch is efficient, impersonal, but not unkind. She works in silence, smoothing the ointment over my ribs, my arms, the bruises along my back. Her fingers press carefully over the worst of them, gauging my reactions.
When she reaches a particularly deep one on my side, I suck in a sharp breath. She hesitates.
“Sorry,” she murmurs.
I huff out a tired laugh. “That’s a first.”
She doesn’t respond, just keeps working, until the sting eases into something soothing.
After a moment, I tilt my head. “Are you hurt anywhere? I’m sure I got at least one good wallop in.”
“My arm,” she admits.
I hold out my hand. “May I? ’Tis only fair.”
There’s a brief pause before her fingers brush mine, guiding my touch to her forearm. I trace the curve of muscle, the warmth of her skin against my fingertips. There’s something different on her wrist. A raised texture, smoother than the rest.
“The skin feels different here,” I murmur, my fingers pausing. “A scar?”
“A tattoo,” she confesses.
My brow furrows. “What of?”
“Bellflowers,” she says, quieter now. “I… I don’t remember a lot about my mother, or where I lived before she died, but I remember there were bellflowers in the garden.”
My fingers drift over the design, tracing what I imagine to be petals. “That’s a nice image.”
A pause. The steam curls between us.
“Do you have any others?” I ask.
“Birds across my shoulder.”
“Birds?”
“Wrens.”
My fingers still against her skin. “Wren,” I repeat. It’s the first time I’ve ever said her name.
She exhales a quiet laugh, as if caught between amusement and discomfort.
“Why Wren?” I ask. “Why not Sera, or Wen?”
Her arm tenses slightly under my touch. “Because I’m as small and dainty as a bird…”
I smirk. “You are neither of those things.”
She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t snap at me for the remark or ask how it is that I know that. Instead, she sits there, quiet and still.
My fingers ghost over her forearm once more. “Wren,” I say softly, “what do you look like?”
Wren hesitates, and for a moment, I think she might not answer me at all. Then, finally, she speaks. “Brown skin, brown eyes, black hair.”
I frown. “That’s a terrible description.”
“Maybe,” she says, voice laced with amusement. “But it’s all you’re getting.”
I exhale a short laugh, shaking my head. I let my fingers drop from her arm, resting them on the edge of the tub. The warmth of the water has seeped into my bones, dulling the sharp ache in my muscles. My body still feels like a collection of bruises, but at least now they aren’t burning.
I expect Wren to say something else, to pick up where we left off, but instead, she shifts away.
“You’re fine,” she says, and I’m not sure if she means the bruises or something else. “I’ll give you some privacy.”
A soft rustle of fabric, and I’m alone in the dark once more.