7. Finn
Finn
Iwipe the sweat from my brow as I track the ring. The yard is baked hard under the sun, with dust kicking up with every step. Summer presses in thick enough to slow reactions and dull edges.
I rub my thumb over the sprig of sea lavender in my pocket.
Something’s off, and it isn’t the heat.
Rye circles Hayes, breathing heavier than he should be. His footwork is clean, his timing close enough, but the whole thing reads wrong. He twists where he should parry, and he’s favoring his left.
“Push, Hayes,” Grier calls from the shade.
Hayes presses forward with no feints, no tricks, just straight lines. Rye gives ground, keeping his right arm tucked tighter than usual, with his elbow locked close to his ribs.
That’s not preference; it’s compensation.
Hayes slips past his guard and taps Rye’s forearm, barely a touch, just enough to score. Rye flinches from pain.
Hayes lowers his sword immediately. “What’s wrong?”
I’m already moving. “It’s his right arm.”
Rye’s eyes snap to mine with a clear warning.
“It’s nothing,” Rye says too fast.
I fold my arms. “Then stop favoring your left.”
He doesn’t answer or argue, just holds himself still in a way that isn’t rest. That tells me enough.
Grier starts forward. Then I feel it, the shift in the space. The yard tightens, postures straighten, and sound thins out, like the air’s been pulled taut.
I turn to see King Eldric standing at the edge of the ring. The King doesn’t come up here often, but when he does, it’s deliberate.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he says, tone light.
Hayes glances at Rye and hesitates.
“Ready?” Rye says, lifting his blade.
I flick a look at Grier, and he gives a near-imperceptible shake of his head, telling me to let it happen. My weight wants to shift forward, but I force it back on my heels.
Hayes raises his sword, and they circle each other. Hayes tests him, pulling his strikes, being careful, too careful.
The King watches with his head tilted, his attention fixed in a way that makes my spine prickle.
“Come now,” the King says pleasantly. “He needs to be ready for the trials.”
Hayes looks at Rye apologetically, then stops holding back.
Each exchange costs Rye more than the last. His right arm is dragging half a beat behind, and there’s a tremor moving through it that he can’t quite control.
I feel the King’s attention sharpen.
Hayes comes in with a combination Rye would counter easily at full strength. Rye overcorrects when he goes to parry, his timing slips just enough for Hayes to cut in and sends his blade skittering across the dirt in front of the entire yard. Hayes pushes in and stops with his sword at Rye’s throat.
The space narrows to the two of them. Rye stands there disarmed, with his chest heaving. When he goes to reach for his blade, his hand shakes.
“You’ve grown too comfortable in the yards,” the King says, his attention shifting to Grier and me, a clear dismissal of Rye.
“Captain,” he continues, “you’re keeping him safe instead of making him ready.”
“We’re building his foundation,” Grier says.
“Breakage is how you learn what holds, not coddling.”
I step forward before I realize I’ve moved.
“We’re training him in the shallows, so he doesn’t drown in the deep.”
The King goes still. He draws a slow breath in through his nose, and his gaze turns to me and holds.
“Where did you hear that?”
My thoughts scatter, and I grab at the first thing that will pass.
“The markets,” I say, far too fast. “One of the vendors.”
“The markets,” he repeats.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Describe the vendor,” he says, stepping closer, with his eyes fixed like he’s found what he was looking for.
“She has gray hair, wears a shawl, and sells bread near the eastern markets,” I say.
For a moment, he looks like a man pulled backward, somewhere far from here. He’s tall, a head above most, same as me, but he looks small in it somehow. His hand finds his pocket and works whatever is in there, slow and deliberate. Then he settles back into himself and turns to walk away.
“Back to your training,” he says over his shoulder.
When he finally turns the corner back into the throne room, the yard releases all at once. Rye’s knees buckle, and Hayes catches him before he hits the dirt. Grier and I move at the same time.
Up close, the damage is obvious. Blood has soaked through the bandage on Rye’s arm, dark and spreading.
“We’re going to the infirmary,” Grier says.
We move Rye off the ring. A sharp breath tears loose when his arm moves wrong. Hayes takes his weight, and Rye lets him.
Inside the infirmary, the healer takes one look and waves us forward. We lower Rye onto the table. She’s already cutting away the ruined bandage with practiced ease.
Hayes steps closer with one hand braced on the table, like he’s holding the room together by force of will.
“I need space,” the healer says. “All of you out.”
“I’m staying,” Hayes says immediately.
She looks up, irritation ready, then recognition flickers and her tone shifts. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Grier’s hand closes firmly around my shoulder, guiding me back into the corridor.
“What was that?” he says.
I rake a hand through my hair and pace, unable to stay still, my thoughts spiraling.
“I don’t know why I said it,” I say. “It just…came out.”
“Where did it come from?”
I stop mid-step and look at him. “My mother,” I say.
Grier shifts his weight, not much but enough, like my panic is justified.
“She used to say it when we trained, when we complained,” I explain. “I’ve never seen him fixate like that.”
Grier steps closer until there’s nowhere else for my attention to go.
“You need to breathe,” he says, low and even. “And stop moving like prey.”
My hands clench at my sides.
“Go home,” he continues. “But go like you’re returning for a meal. Not like your blood’s on fire.”
I hold his gaze. My jaw aches from how hard it’s set.
“If you bolt right now, he’ll smell it. You need to stay calm.”
My throat burns, and I swallow it down. I nod once. It’s all I can manage.
I leave the infirmary, forcing my shoulders square and my pace even.
The city hums with midday traffic, carts grinding over stone, prices being called out, and the smell of spices hanging thick in the air. I sink into the normalcy and let it carry me home.
I push open the door to our flat.
“You’re late,” Gemma says, her voice tight with nerves.
She’s at the counter with her sleeves rolled up and a knife paused mid-chop, her eyes already searching my face.
“Finn, what are you doing home?” she asks.
I close the door behind me.
“Where’s Mom?”
“At the markets, she left before lunch to grab some bread.” Her voice tightens. “She should’ve been back by now.”
My breath goes shallow. I told the King it was a baker at the markets, gray hair, shawl, nothing memorable. A lie built to deflect. But Mom buys bread from that stall. If the King sends guards to watch the baker, they won’t just find the baker. They’ll find Mom.
My jaw grinds hard enough to ache. I handed him a lie that leads straight to the truth.
Gemma’s eyes are on me, waiting. The cold settles over me as the thought finishes assembling.
“She’s not here,” I say quietly, like saying it softer makes it less true, “because the King took her.”