Chapter 32
Caelan
“Careful now, Princess,” Caelan teased. “We wouldn’t want you to get hurt.” For the dozenth time that morning, he had his steel pressed against her slender neck. Elara lay on the floor at his feet, glaring up at him.
“Again,” she said.
He pulled his blade away from her throat, leaving a thin line of red behind, and reached down to help her up.
She shoved his arm away and stood, dusting herself off before trying to tame the loose strands of black hair that fell in her face, having freed themselves from her braid. Her movements were stiff, distracted.
“Sorry about that,” he said, shrugging. “You know we can take a break.”
“Do you need a break?” she huffed, falling back into a starting stance, ready to pounce.
Caelan smiled and shook his head. This morning, she was a determined little thing, her eyes bright with purpose, a slight set to her jaw.
They had been training for hours, and she was doing quite well.
Her strength and stamina had improved over the months, her magic enabling her to recover and rebuild her muscle faster than anyone else he’d worked with.
Her true talent, though, lay in the sharpness of her intellect.
He’d drilled into her the dozens of fighting stances and strategies that had taken him years to master.
Her grace in the face of certain death didn’t hurt either.
While he tried to be gentle, her growing pain tolerance only left her afraid of the most deadly strikes, giving her an advantage over her potential adversaries.
Caelan had to admit that she impressed him, even if she couldn’t appreciate the significant progress she’d made in such a short time.
But a silent dread hung between them, a shared fear that their efforts would ultimately be in vain, despite their progress.
Elara lunged at him, a vicious attempt to hit the weak spot in his side with her elbow, which he appreciated. He grunted as he allowed her to land the blow, doubling over. “Good,” he gasped. “You’re finally learning the number one rule of swordplay.”
“And what’s that, exactly?” she asked.
He grinned wickedly. “That there are no rules.” He swept his leg under her leather boots, causing both of them to topple to the ground. Her short sword, the weapon that they had chosen for her after trying a bow and a staff, clanked to the floor, rolling just out of her reach.
Caelan tossed his own sword to the side, catching her arms and pinning them to her sides as he mounted her. She wriggled beneath him, distracting him from the fight at hand. A surge of adrenaline left him aching, consumed by need. When she caught his eyes, her own darkened, and she stilled.
“Sorry, love,” he said, brushing his lips against the spot where he’d nicked her earlier, the skin already smooth, fully healed by her magic. “I just don’t think today is your day.” He nuzzled her neck, enjoying the vanilla scent of her hair mixing with the salt from her sweat.
“Maybe not,” she purred. Her lips brushed against his ear, sending delicious shivers through his body. Until her teeth clenched down on his earlobe and the sharp pain jolted him.
“Hey! No biting, Princess.”
Elara took advantage of his surprise, wrapping her legs around him and using her now-free arms to flip them both over. She pulled a dagger from her boot and pressed the cold metal to his throat.
“You said there were no rules, watermage.” A grin brighter than the stars spread across her face.
“Fine, I surrender.” He held his palms up. “When did you start carrying that in your boot?” he asked, gesturing to the dagger.
“Wouldn’t you like to know? It’s my little secret.” She resheathed the weapon and grasped his wrists, wrapping his arms around her waist.
Caelan longed to rip the leather armor from her torso.
Stars above. If we could just stay like this forever, he thought as he looked up at the woman he loved, victory and pride twinkling in her blue eyes.
Every brush of her body against his made it harder not to lean into her entirely, to smell her, taste her.
Not to mention the fact that she was straddling him, her weight on him a captivating distraction. But not distracting enough.
My little secret. The words echoed against his skull. His jaw stiffened, and he gave her hips a tender squeeze, gently lifting her off of him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, the joy in her eyes replaced with concern. “Did I hurt you?” She examined his ear and prodded lightly at his torso.
“No, you didn’t hurt me,” he said. “But we should be done for the day. I have work to do.” He stood, offering her his hand once more. This time, she took it.
“You’re leaving? Caelan, no. I need more practice.”
“You’ve done exceptionally well, Elara. But the reality is that no further amount of training is going to make much difference.
At this point, we need to rely on my men and Sera and hope that you never have to use this.
” He picked up her short sword and held out the hilt for her.
She gripped it, knuckles turning white. “Or that,” he added, nodding toward the dagger concealed in her boot.
“You think we’ll lose, don’t you?” A haunted, glassy-eyed look overtook her lovely features.
I think I’ll lose. Lose everything. No matter what happens with my father.
“It’s . . . not that simple,” Caelan said, the words catching in his throat as he swallowed his pride. “I’ve lost to that man my entire life.”
“I don’t accept that. You must have faith. At the very least, you need to have hope.”
Perhaps he’d never won before because he lacked her conviction.
Maybe fighting for his own survival wasn’t enough.
He looked at Elara, her silk shirt and trousers drenched in sweat beneath her armor, hair escaping her braid.
A flicker of hope, bright as a firefly, danced in her eyes.
Faith in their plan. Faith in me. His heart pounded against his tender ribs.
Caelan had witnessed her struggles firsthand.
She’d fought for survival from the moment he and his men had captured her the night of the invasion to the hours she’d spent learning to conceal her healing gift.
Now she fought for freedom—the freedom of her people from a tyrant like his father.
Most importantly, she fought for love—the love for her family, for him. His stomach turned to pure acid.
“Do you really think me that incapable?” she whispered, her eyes sliding down over the blade in her hands. He swore he glimpsed a tear in her reflection.
“No! Of course it’s not that. I just . . .” He held his hands out in front of him, glancing through the window to the bare-branched trees outside, wishing he could flee into the peaceful snow.
“Then prove it. Fight me,” she commanded, backing away from him and lifting her blade.
“Elara, no. I don’t want . . .” He floundered, not knowing what to say. The room shrunk around him, adrenaline running through his veins once more and clouding his judgement. Please don’t make me do this, my love.
“Fight me!” she roared, face turning crimson.
Caelan’s shoulders sagged. She was so stubborn. To protect her, he’d have to break her spirit—to show her the brutality she would face in a real battle.
“As you wish, Princess.”
In a flash, he was on her, the sound of steel scraping steel and grunts of exertion echoing around the dusty room.
He backed her into a wall of wooden crates, her weight sending a few of the top ones tumbling to the ground as her back hit it.
Elara’s eyes closed, beads of sweat dripping down her forehead.
He sensed she was using all her strength, from her powerful legs and core to the thin muscles wrapped around her forearms. She was strong. But not strong enough.
His face was a breath away from hers, the tips of their noses almost touching.
“Yield,” he whispered. He barely recognized his own voice. The sound that came out was a menacing rasp, a low, gravelly sound that set his teeth on edge.
“No,” she grunted.
“Isn’t this what you wanted, Princess?” he hissed. “For me to ‘prove it’? I don’t think you’re weak, Elara. Just naive. You don’t know the way the world works the way that I do. You don’t know the way he works the way that I do.”
Elara’s eyes widened at his sharp, accusing tone. For the first time since they’d met, a look of utter defeat filled her eyes as she stared at him. Caelan’s heart sank like a stone, regret washing over him. He released her, backing away slowly.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sword clattering to the floor. He dropped to his knees, his lungs burning, the air heavy in his chest.
“Don’t be,” Elara said, wrapping her arms around herself. “I shouldn’t have pushed you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. You should have listened when I said we were done.” His hands balled into fists.
“You were right,” she said, and his head snapped up in surprise. “We can’t rely solely on brute strength. Certainly not on my combat skills.” A half-hearted smirk tugged at one corner of her rosy lips. “We need to approach this from a variety of angles.”
Kneeling before him, she cupped his face in her hands, her touch featherlight. “Go, talk to your men, and to Sera if you want. I’ll see you later.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek, her soft lips warm against his clammy skin.
As she walked toward the door, he called out to her back, “Where are you going?”
She didn’t face him as she answered, “To speak with your father.”
Caelan was on his feet in a flash, reaching for her. “No! Elara, don’t . . . not without me. Please, wait!”
“Please,” she whispered. “Let me do this on my own.”
He dropped his arm, and the door closed behind her with a sickening click.