Chapter 29 Cassiel
Wren is off duty for another three days, by which point she’s going stir-crazy, and it’s probably more dangerous to keep her inside with me than it is to let her loose with a wound.
She’s so grumpy and agitated at being inside all the time, that I even leave our chambers by myself once or twice, just to get away from her.
My actions shame me slightly—I know I was far worse to be around, the first few days she was here. The first few weeks, even.
A lot has changed since then.
I can’t remember the last time I was out of my room by myself. I expect it to be terrifying, but it’s oddly freeing to wander out to the grounds and take in the fresh air by myself.
I take the opportunity to speak to the castle tailor, and arrange for him to come and pay Wren a visit. I did promise her a new pair of leggings, after all. It seems small compensation for getting injured in the line of duty, so I also arrange for a soap basket.
Wren is in no better a mood when I return, but she perks up when the tailor arrives with his samples. “You can order whatever you like,” I tell her. “But only if you describe everything to me.”
This cheers her up considerably. She orders two more pairs of leggings, a corset in blue and silver stitched with leaves, and a green dress printed with feathers. The tailor is also kind enough to take her measurements to the cobbler for a pair of thigh-high boots.
“Hard to imagine you in a dress, Thornvale,” I tell her, as the tailor is packing up, “but I must confess, I do have fun trying.”
“I like pretty things,” she tells me.
I’ve not forgotten the time she accidentally called me attractive. I like that she finds me pleasing to the eye, and I dislike it, too. Partly because I’ll never know her like that, and partly because I want to know if she likes more about me than my appearance.
A dangerous thought. Not one I should give weight to.
It sits on my chest nonetheless.
You only like her because she’s here, I tell myself. She tests you, and makes you laugh, and you’ve survived stupid shit together. Your standards are low at the moment. Snap out of it.
The door opens a moment later, delivering Wren her basket of soaps. I wait for her to tell me it’s too much, but instead she accepts with glee, inhaling each bar one by one.
“You keep gifting me things that smell nice,” she says when she’s done. “I’m starting to wonder if my natural scent is off-putting in some way.”
“No! No, not at all—” I actually find her natural scent the entire opposite of off-putting. Distracting was a better word for it. Tantalising. I can hardly compare it to anything else. It’s warm and earthy and it lights a fire in my belly that I want to stamp out.
Hopefully the soaps will cover it up.
Please cover it up.
“You sound almost flustered, precious prince.”
“I assure you, I am not.” Liar.
I can practically hear Wren’s sly grin from across the room, but it’s her touch that undoes me—when she steps towards me, slides her hand against my cheek, and whispers “thank you” so closely that she’s practically kissing my ear.
Her breath stays there for the rest of the day.
The next morning, Wren promptly declares that she’s recovered enough for us to restart our training. I know that something’s different the moment I step into the hall. There’s a shift in the air when I speak, like it’s more full than usual. My cane bangs into something.
“I had it filled with obstacles,” she declares. “Barrels, crates, even an overturned table…”
I hear her moving through the space, her footsteps light and quick. She’s enjoying herself.
“What’s the point of this?” I ask.
“We’re going to play Where’s Wren?” she tells me. “And trust me, I am much harder to catch than Runara.”
I also think she’ll be much more fun to catch than Ru, but I bite back that thought.
“Are you ready?” she calls from some distance away.
I exhale, centering myself. “Yes.”
Silence. Sound vanishes from the room. I tilt my head, listening for the slightest shift, the telltale whisper of fabric against wood or stone. The trick isn’t just to hear her—it’s to predict where she’ll be next.
A creak to my left. I turn, stepping carefully over what feels like scattered straw. A faint scuff sounds behind me. I pivot again.
“Moving is cheating,” I say.
“Moving is preparation,” she answers from somewhere. “Your enemies will not be thoughtful and stay in the same spot.”
I huff. “Convenient reasoning.”
“You wouldn’t like me as much if I went easy on you.”
She’s absolutely right, however much I hate it. I shift towards the sound, angling my body low, waiting. There—another footfall, sharper this time. She’s close. I let my stance go lax, as if I’ve given up the chase, and the moment she pounces, I move.
Her breath catches as I twist, catching her mid-air. A yelp bursts from her lips as I flip her momentum, slinging her over my shoulder.
“Found you,” I murmur, lowering her back to the ground. She lands beneath me. My hands brace either side of her, caging her in.
Her breath is uneven, not from exertion.
Neither is mine.
Heat emanates from her body, almost feverish. The air trembles with it. Her hands press against my chest, but she doesn’t push me away. Fingers splay across my shoulders. There’s a slow, reckless smile in her voice when she speaks. “Well played, Your Highness.”
She should move. I should move.
Neither of us does.
A slow clap breaks the silence, followed by a familiar voice dripping with amusement.
“Well, well,” Evander drawls. “Shall I come back later?”
I’ve been so focused on the fight that I didn’t even realise someone else had entered the room.
Wren is on her feet before I can move, and the absence of her warmth is startling.
I push upright, straightening my tunic as my brother’s footfalls draw near.
There’s at least two other people with him.
Knights or guards, from the sound of their clothes and weight of their footsteps.
Evander stops a few paces away. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything.”
“Only my victory,” Wren says breezily, brushing herself down. “You took your time, Your Highness.”
“Some of us don’t have the luxury of playing children’s games all morning,” he says, voice light, teasing.
“I should be grateful you’ve found time in your busy schedule to assist us.”
“Assist?” I query.
“Yes. Thornvale said you needed to practise… whistles? Did I get that right?”
“You absolutely did.”
Wren briefly explains the task to everyone. Evander and the two guards are to try and attack us, while Wren and I use our secret commands to escape, evade and, if possible, disarm them. It’s all rather a lot. I’ve barely fought with anyone but Wren. I’m not sure I’ll even remember the signals—
But I’m going to try. I have to.
I adjust my stance as they spread out, waiting for her command. She vanishes from my side into the maze of obstacles, and then—
A sharp, high whistle. Left. I shift, blade raised just in time to catch Dain’s strike. The impact shudders through my arms.
Another whistle. High and clipped—right. I roll my weight, sidestepping as the other guard lunges.
Evander holds back at first, studying the scene, no doubt.
The next whistle is fast, almost too fast to process. My mind fumbles over the meaning. Wren clicks her tongue in exasperation, and then—two firm taps to my left shoulder.
Two to my left.
I pivot, bringing my sword up. Wooden blades bang together. Dain’s strength pushes me back, but Wren moves past me, throwing herself into the fight.
Another whistle, another signal. Some slip through my grasp in the chaos, but Wren doesn’t let me falter. She repeats them until I understand, her hands tapping instructions against my back, my shoulders, my arms.
Two taps at my ribs—guard low.
A press at my right shoulder—pivot.
She’s relentless. But so is Evander.
“You’re hesitating,” he calls, striking faster. “If she gets cut down, it’s your fault.”
The words land like a blow, but Wren whistles again—sharp, commanding, focus.
I grit my teeth. Adjust. Listen.
We move as one.
The fight turns in our favour—not because of me, not really. Wren is the one keeping us ahead, her signals crisp and constant, her movements fast enough to make up for my momentary lapses.
Still, I hold my own. When I falter, she corrects me. When I second-guess, she doesn’t. We weave between our opponents, filling in each other’s gaps.
Dain grunts as I drive him back. The other knight stumbles as Wren sweeps low, knocking his legs from beneath him.
Evander is the last to yield. He draws back, breathing hard, and I can hear the smirk in his voice when he says, “Not bad.”
Not bad.
I don’t delude myself—I know they weren’t fighting at full strength. But I take the victory nonetheless.
Wren steps away, panting. “You lot clean up your mess. I’ll fetch water.”
She strides off towards the training hall’s side chamber, and my head turns of its own accord, following the easy, confident sway of her steps.
Evander, beside me, makes a thoughtful noise. “Her rear is very shapely,” he remarks. “And her breasts are quite symmetrical.”
I choke. “What are you doing?”
“Painting a picture for you,” he says smoothly, “so that you may admire her as she walks away.”
“Oh… shut up.”
Evander laughs, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You’re so easy.”
I shake him off, scowling. “You’re insufferable.”
“You were looking.”
“I can’t look, Evander!”
“No, but you know exactly what I mean…”
I do. I do know, and I hate it.
Feeling like I do is an awful lot more dangerous than fighting blind, and infinitely more terrifying.