Chapter 26
“Keep your guard up.”
Sterling comes at me directly, a blur of silver and blue that I meet with equal verve. The sharp clang of steel rings out across the empty courtyard as our swords clash.
“I am.”
With the bright glimmer of amusement in his eyes, he pushes against my blade, making me stumble backward. “You’re not.”
There’s no use wiping the dirt from my cheek; I’m already covered in it. Instead, I ready myself for another round.
Satisfied, Sterling starts to circle, slick as a predator.
He strikes from the left, simple and swift. I see the attack coming early and counter, pushing in with my own attack. Perspiration collects at my brow. He’s usually faster than this.
I bring the blade down hard, aiming for his shoulder.
Sterling deflects without blinking.
Dust kicks up at our feet. It stains our armor in ochre, painting the tips of my fingers, the curve of his jaw.
There’s no doubt Sterling is adept with steel. He is a master of it, as you would expect of my personal guard, but it is not his sole weapon.
Words are.
He swats away my blade as easily as a fly. “Focus, Mia. Do as I told you.”
Though Ferntree’s harvest has already begun, winter maintains its tight grasp of each morning, and if asked, I will blame my shiver on the chill.
“Again,” he commands, a curl tugging at his mouth.
I’ve long lost hope of my heart fighting off the whims of my attraction for him. It is always dashed the moment his smile appears.
We’re alone. We’re always alone when we practice. No one likes to watch; the persistent clatter of steel is still too recent of a memory for many to endure. I do not judge them. We all bear our scars differently.
“You’re letting me win,” I say, dodging his next thrust. “You know how much I want to learn. In a real fight—”
“You’ll never be in a real fight,” Sterling says, which is entirely unfair. I could if he let me. He’s lucky I don’t run him through. “As long as I’m still breathing, I will stand between you and the forces against you.”
My chest rises with a breathlessness only Sterling manages to achieve. Little wonder that the seed of my affection has rooted itself so deeply in every corner of my soul. Little wonder that he does not feel the same.
He steps to the right, but it’s a ploy, and he dodges my next move, countering from above.
“The curse has been lifted,” I say. “The sorcerer is gone.”
He’s holding back, but it’s still an effort to keep up with him. I strike harder, faster, angry that he is still treating me like a beginner. Like a child.
“There is no need to fight anymore.”
No need except my own selfish reasons to have this time with him. For a year, I’ve waited for him to call our training off, but he hasn’t. Instead, it’s only seemed to renew his determination to teach me.
“There is always a need. You should never walk into a room without the certainty that you can walk out.”
“That’s what I have you for.”
We clash, again and again and again. Attack, parry, block. Circling each other. Sweat slicks my hair to my skin, pools under my tights, but I give no ground.
Neither does he.
I dig deep, striking harder, faster, trying to surprise him. To no avail. There’s no surprising Sterling. No fight he isn’t ready for, no breaking his reserve.
Hauling the sword high above me, I try to strike overhead, but he meets my blade front on. Steel collides with steel between us, and he presses onward, taking me off guard, closing the gap. His armor touches mine.
My lungs startle, breath frozen in my airways. The blazing blue of his eyes lighting my blood on fire.
“Good. Do that again.”
I stumble out of the hold, adjusting my grip, my heart thundering in my chest. Frustration builds up within me, heating my blood, tuning my senses to none but him. Each step, each blink, each breath.
I see the opening—the shift in his weight, a step—and I strike.
He blocks the attack in time to keep the blade from his neck, but I’m moving too fast, and I follow him over as he falls back, hitting the ground with a rough thud.
All I hear is the heavy gasps of air pulled into my lungs as awareness filters in. I did it. I actually got him.
He shifts underneath me, and I start. I’m astride him, my knees planted on either side of his hips. His breath gusts against my cheek.
My sword is a beat away from his throat.
I search for a reaction, anything to prove I’m not alone in my feelings, but he’s unaffected. Only the pink of his cheeks, unnoticeable under a layer of dirt, would be proof that he’s exerted himself.
Years, I’ve pined, and there has never been proof. Why would he start now?
I get to my feet and offer my hand. He doesn’t need it—he’s stronger than me by multitudes—but he takes it anyway, and I savor the gruff texture of his palm for the scant seconds it lasts until he pulls away.
“Not many have managed that and lived,” he says. “I should be thankful this is our last lesson.”
My heart falls, heavy.
It’s a sharp reminder of how short-lived that promise will be. I may have him now, but he refuses to leave Ferntree. Refuses to join me in Chance.
“You might be thankful, but I am not.” It’s petulant, but I don’t care.
Once, our world was one. Stretching out from horizon to horizon and beyond. When the sorcerer came into his power, he engulfed the world in water, carving the earth apart, creating twelve lands separated by a dark and riotous sea that he ruled, alongside serpents and horrors.
He is defeated, but the chasms remain.
Hope is a fragile seed, one that I’m determined to help grow and the biggest reason I volunteered to leave. To be wed.
“Equitable,” my brother calls it. “A marriage of mutual benefit.” Easy for Louis to say; he’s not the one leaving his home behind.
“How are you feeling?” He holds out his palm, and I pass him my sword.
My nerves pull tighter with each breath, stretched thin and fraying. I’ve run out of time. Lachlan will be here—has likely already been received by my brother—and my future will begin. A future that doesn’t include Sterling.
Anyone in my position would be nervous because …
* * *
Lachlan is …
a stranger (go to 29)
my oldest friend (go to 35)
go back (go to 17)