22. Chapter 22
By the time I reach the training yard, I’m already tired.
Not from the walk, but from the routine that’s become my life.
Every day starts with Mazelle finding a new way to throw me into the sand while Thorin reminds me to stop thinking and start trusting my instincts.
I am getting better, but I’m exhausted. Apparently, this is what progress looks like.
The sand has been raked smooth since Mazelle last introduced my body to it, which I find personally insulting. I liked the touch of my outline there. Perhaps others didn’t share my same feelings. I walk to the training center to find Thorin standing at the center of it.
He wears black again, his sleeves rolled to his forearms—and I notice his forearms. Strong. Lean. Defined enough that it’s obvious his shadows aren’t doing all the work around here. I immediately shove that thought away because it has nothing to do with training.
My eyes disagree.
Onyx stands near the wall with Cadrin, his arms folded, jaw tight, watching me with the same unwavering focus he usually does. Mazelle stands beside a rack of practice blades, gloved hands clasped, looking severe. As I said, nothing changes.
If she still resents me for throwing her across the Sacred Gardens…she hides it well. Then again…knowing Mazelle, she could just be waiting for the perfect opportunity to return the favor.
“This looks ominous,” I say as I step into the circle.
Thorin lifts his gaze from the practice sword in his hand. “Good morning, Lyra. I hope you are well rested from last night.”
“That depends entirely on what you have planned for me today. It could be a good morning, or it could be an awful morning. I never know around here.”
“You make it sound as though we enjoy causing you distress.”
I give him a pointed look.
One corner of his mouth lifts lazily. “Maybe occasionally. But I do not have to threaten you to train your magic anymore, so the worst part is over.”
Well…at least he’s honest.
“If this is more physical training, I’d like to file a formal complaint against Lieutenant Mazelle for attempted murder.”
Cadrin snorts. I turn my glare on him, and he suddenly finds the far wall fascinating. I thought he might.
“You were never in danger of dying,” Mazelle replies, holding her hand up as she examines her nails.
“Only because I'm stubborn and refuse to die.”
“Well, looks like you have figured out a passing survival strategy. Would you like the king to throw you a royal dinner for that?”
Before I can give my own snide remark, Thorin cuts in. "Lieutenant Mazelle has bruised your body enough for one week."
I blink. “Does that mean no training today?”
“Absolutely not.”
He reaches for a second blade and turns back to me, extending the hilt.
“Today, you'll be training with me.”
Sweet goddess of life… spare me.
* * *
Thorin turns toward the center of the yard. “Today, we’re not coaxing life from soil. Today, you learn to defend yourself with your magic and a blade.”
The words settle between us before my sarcasm has a chance to save me.
Defend. My stomach twists in ugly knots.
I’ve spent my entire life using magic to heal.
Now he wants me to wield it alongside a weapon.
My attention shifts to the shadows gathered loosely at his feet, gliding across the sand.
Waiting for him. Or waiting for me. It's becoming harder to tell.
“I thought you wanted me to control my magic.” That was originally the plan, and now it’s shifted. Maybe he’ll give me an answer as to why we’re shifting goals.
“I do want you to control your magic. But to do that, you need to learn how to use it to protect yourself.”
“It sounds like you want me to weaponize it.”
“The two are not separate skills.”
A chill slips through me that has nothing to do with the morning cold. “They should be.”
“Well, they are not. Are you ready?”
I hate the certainty in his voice, but I prepare myself anyway.
Everything in this palace has been quietly teaching me the same thing: my magic isn’t gentle simply because it can heal.
It threw Mazelle through the air. It cracked stone.
It made his shadows recoil. Maybe hiding from it never kept anyone safe. Maybe it only kept me ignorant.
“Not particularly.”
“That is, unfortunately, too bad for you today, Lyra.”
“Why are you teaching me this?” I ask. I’m confused—I don’t understand why I would ever need to use my magic as a weapon.
“What am I defending myself from? You keep telling me I’ll need control and discipline and now apparently the ability to attack things with light, but you never tell me why. Most kidnappers eventually explain themselves. It’s poor manners not to.”
“You think often of manners for someone who’s threatened nearly every person in this yard.”
“You weren’t supposed to know about that!” I grit out. “That was supposed to stay IN. MY. HEAD.”
“Your concern is noted.”
“Thorin, my concern is exhausted.”
That slips out more honestly than I intend. Thorin's amusement fades, and the man beneath the arrogance studies me for a moment too long. I hate when he looks past the sarcasm. Past the anger. Straight at the exhausted woman who just wants a quiet life.
“Then sit, or take your leave,” he says with a shrug.
“No.” I catch the cadence before it turns into the kind of argument that ends with him amused and me outmaneuvered.
“You don't get to use concern as a leash. If I’m tired, I’m tired.
That doesn't mean I’m fragile, and it doesn’t mean I want you making decisions for me.
I can do that for myself, not that you’ve let me. ”
I note the approval in his gaze and it irritates me so badly that I want to hit him in the rib with my practice blade.
“I did not say you were fragile.”
“No, but you like implying it when it suits you. You don’t think I caught that, Thorin?”
“I think you’re reckless. Especially with your tongue.”
My anger swells, and I find myself biting back before I can stop myself. “And I think you’re the most secretive fucking man on the continent. And you’re the king!” I throw my hands up in exasperation.
“Yes, I know exactly how you feel about my… secrecy.”
“No one told you to go digging around in my head.”
“You did not have to let me in… but you did.” The way he looks at me tells me he’s talking about far more than my thoughts.
“Well, I revoke it. Never come near my thoughts—or me—again.”
I don’t have to explain myself. The look in his eyes tells me he understood exactly what I meant.
Onyx smiles at the edge of my vision, and for reasons I refuse to examine, the sight steadies me. Even when he refuses to answer questions, even when guilt follows him like a shadow that isn’t Thorin's, he feels familiar in this place.
Thorin notices where my attention went and I catch his expression darken. He turns away, which feels like a victory and a loss together.
“You will form a shield.”
His voice is no longer gentle, the one reserved for quiet moments when we’re alone. It’s clipped. Commanding.
The Shadow King is back.
“With my magic?”
“Yes, and you will block my attack with your sword.”
“And if I don’t know how to do both?”
His eyes narrow on mine. “Then you will learn.”
He steps closer until only I can hear him. “Or you'll be mending your injuries from now to the end of time.”
I gape at him. How does he know that I can heal myself? Onyx. He must’ve told Thorin. I whip my head toward him. Onyx meets my stare from across the yard, looking thoroughly unimpressed. He absolutely did not tell him.
Which means…
I narrow my eyes at Thorin. "You've been eavesdropping."
His reply is a smirk.
That motherfucker.
* * *
We spar with sword and magic, light clashing against shadow for what feels like hours.
My magic bursts too quickly, too brightly, or too late—once sideways, knocking over a weapons rack while Cadrin jumps back like the wood personally attacked him.
Onyx steps forward when a shadow comes too close, but Thorin's gaze cuts to him before he crosses the yard, and whatever silent argument passes between them feels like another weapon in the air.
I notice all of it. I notice too much these days.
By the time sweat dampens my tunic and my arms ache, my frustration has sharpened into something raw. I'm tired of failing in front of an audience. Tired of Thorin knowing exactly when I'm about to break and pushing just hard enough to keep me from it.
The next spear forms. I don’t wait for him to throw it.
My magic surges, and instead of imagining a wall, I imagine the feeling of refusing—the way I defied his order not to use my magic in Elvora. The way I refused to cry after Mazelle knocked me on my ass one too many times.
The way I refused to let this palace swallow me whole.
A shield blooms from my palm, silver-gold, trembling like molten gold poured through crystal.
For one glorious second, no one speaks, and I grin. Smugly.
“I did that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Not a terrible imaginary wall, then?”
“It could have been better.”
“You are physically incapable of praise. How hard is it to say ‘well done, Lyra’?”
“I have praised you. Many times. And you have never complained… not once.” A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face.
Heat creeps into my cheeks and I know he is absolutely not talking about the training ring.
“I hate you,” I spit with as much venom as I can muster.
The words have come so easily since the day I arrived. They don't anymore. This time, it hurts a little to say them to Thorin. I say them anyway.
“No, you do not.”
He looks at me and taps his heart twice, as if reminding me of the very thing I try to avoid with him. I hate that he keeps saying that. More than that, I hate that each time, I’m a little less convinced he’s wrong.
My cheeks warm, so I raise my hand again. “Throw another.”
“Lyra,” Onyx says, his voice low. “You should rest.”
The concern in his voice makes my chest tighten and my temper flare all at once.
Gods. Why does everyone insist on worrying about me?
“I'm fine, Onyx.”
“You are shaking. No more.”
I look down. My fingers are indeed trembling. “That’s excitement.”
“NO. No, Lyra. That’s exhaustion, bordering on burnout.”
“Perhaps I'm excited to be exhausted.”
Thorin studies me. “She is fine. Again.”
Onyx’s jaw tightens. “She needs a break, Your Majesty,” he grits out. “If she keeps at it like this, she will burn out. And she won’t be useful to you at all if she’s dead, will she?”
His gaze never leaves Thorin's. “She needs a break.”
The training yard falls silent as every eye shifts between them. Onyx has just contradicted the King in front of the Shadow Guard, and judging by the look on Mazelle's face, that isn’t something anyone here has witnessed before.
“Does she?” Thorin tilts his head, quiet confidence settling over his features. He already knows the answer.
The shadows at Thorin's feet surge without warning, spiraling around me in slow, deliberate coils. They veil me from the rest of the training yard, leaving only Thorin and Onyx able to see me.
“Since when,” he says quietly, “do you presume to know what she needs, Captain?”
“Thor—”
“Your Majesty.” The correction is quiet as it slices between the men.
Thorin doesn’t look at me. His attention never leaves Onyx.
“You do not ever presume to tell me what muya mivanti needs...” His voice is measured, each word deliberate. “Or what she wants.”
Onyx goes perfectly still. Not a single muscle moves and it looks like he’s frozen in time. It’s as if the words struck him square in the chest.
Beside him, Mazelle inhales sharply, her brows shooting upward before she quickly schools her expression. She doesn't understand the words, but she understands enough to know something has just changed.
The rest of the yard remains frozen in confused silence.
Thorin tilts his head. “Do you understand me, Captain?”
The title lands like the edge of a drawn blade.
“I have permitted this for far too long.” His eyes never leave Onyx’s. “Contradict me on this matter again, and I will not be so lenient, no matter our history.”
For a long moment, Onyx doesn't answer. His jaw works once. “...Yes, Your Majesty.”
Onyx bows with practiced precision before turning on his heel. He takes three steps before he stops. Without looking back, he says quietly, “your problem has always been believing you can bear any cost... so long as the kingdom survives.”
Then Onyx walks away without another word.
I look at Thorin, my mouth slightly open after witnessing their exchange. Things have been tense between them for a while now, but it feels as though something is finally coming to a head. For a heartbeat, Thorin looks... tired. Then the mask returns.
Any cost.
What cost?