Chapter 12
Alette
Fae magic can actually be helpful. Who would have thought? I rotate my ankle a little before I take my next step and find not even a ping of pain. The palace healer’s brew tasted like ash and citrus, but it must have worked, because the dull throb is gone.
It seems I’m ready for my training today… there’s no excuse at all to avoid spending more time with the four confusing fae kings. None at all.
Four pairs of eyes track me from the edge of the gravel court.
The kings are already here, lined up like a jury, each dressed for training in their own style.
King Oberon is in tight black, a sleeveless shirt that puts his muscular arms on display.
His muscular arms that are covered in scars and burns.
King Ashton is in airy, delicate white leather so fine it might dissolve if it got wet.
King Sylvian is in mossy green with bits of actual moss on his shoulders, as if the ground itself grew the clothing onto him.
King Cassius is in blue with silver piping, starched and immaculate.
I wish I could say I feel brave. But I don’t. My hands shake, and there’s sweat gathering behind my knees. What will practice fighting with the fae include? A lot of blood, I have to imagine.
The wind shifts. King Oberon steps forward, impatience carved into every inch of him. “First things first,” he says, jerking his chin at the practice weapons rack, “you’re with me.”
His presence is a slap, and I flinch before I catch myself. I hate him for making me feel small, but I still trail after him. He grabs two practice swords and tosses one to me. I fumble it, almost drop it, then clutch it to my chest, cheeks burning.
“Your grip is wrong.” He circles behind me, shoving my hand lower, then forcing my thumb into a better spot.
His hands are huge, rough, and every time he touches me, the pressure makes my bones ache.
“It’s a sword, not a ladle.” He takes three steps back, then lifts his own blade, easy as breathing.
I try to mimic his stance, but I feel ridiculous.
King Oberon doesn’t wait for me to get ready—he lunges, fast as a wildcat, and I throw up my sword in pure panic. The smack of wood on wood rings through my teeth. I stumble, but he doesn’t let me fall. Instead, he grabs my elbow and jerks me upright, then pushes me away.
“Again.” The word is a challenge, but also a promise.
We do it again. And again. I block twice, then take a hit to the ribs that knocks the wind out of me. He doesn’t even pause. “You think your enemy waits for you?” he snarls, shoving me back into position. “Don’t hesitate. You hesitate, you die.”
I try to get angry, to focus. I swing back at him, but it’s wide and slow. He catches my blade with his own, then twists until the sword jerks out of my hands. It smacks the ground and King Oberon just stares at me like he’s evaluating my worth.
“Pick it up.” He says it softly, like I’m a dog who just soiled the rug.
I snatch the sword and scramble upright. My hair’s coming out of its tie and sweat runs down my back. I hate that I can’t stop shaking.
“You have strength, more than I thought, I’ll give you that,” King Oberon says, circling again. His blue eyes cut through me. “But you’re fighting yourself. Get angry. Use it.”
I don’t know how to explain that getting angry is the one thing I’m most afraid of. It’s too sharp to use. If I let it out, it might turn on me just as fast.
He comes at me again, this time a low sweep. I block it, barely, but his follow-up knocks me backwards until my bad ankle nearly folds. He’s there instantly, one hand on my shoulder, the other steadying my sword arm.
His breath is hot against my ear. “Stand up straight,” he hisses. “Look at me, not the ground.”
I look up, and the intensity in his gaze makes me feel like my heart stutters, until I look away. He releases me with a gentle push. The spot he touched is still warm.
“We favor forward movement,” King Oberon says, louder now, so the other kings can hear. “None of this backpedaling shit. You push, and you keep pushing until they can’t breathe. That’s how fire wins.”
I know he’s talking about more than swordplay.
He lunges, and I brace myself. His eyes drop and widen as they focus on me. This time, instead of blocking, I duck and swing up. It’s wild and awkward, but I feel the jolt as my blade catches his hip. The crack of wood echoes. We both freeze.
I glance up at him in triumph, but he’s staring at me strangely. I follow his gaze, right to the spot where my shirt, a new one from the servants, has popped three buttons from the collar. My skin is flushed, probably red as a cherry, and showing an impressive amount of cleavage.
Mortified, I yank the shirt closed, fastening the buttons as quickly as I can. My hands shake so badly, it takes me three tries. I already feel strangely naked when King Oberon looks at me, I don’t need to feel even more vulnerable.
He seems painfully still as he steps back from me. “You’re done with me. Next king.” Then he tosses his sword onto the rack and stalks away, shooting the others a look that’s half warning, half dare.
I stand in the yard, chest heaving, wondering who will teach me next.
The wind stirs, and suddenly King Ashton is beside me, white sleeves fluttering around his wrists. He claps, loud enough that the sound rings in my ears. “Lucky you. King Oberon has finished terrifying you.”
King Oberon mutters something that’s almost a growl. King Ashton just grins, his smile dazzling, then sweeps the sweat-soaked hair from my brow. I flinch out of habit, but he’s already stepped away, walking a loose circle around me.
“My turn, little warrior,” he says, winking. “Wind fae don’t fight like brutes. We fight smart. You ready for that?”
I nod, though my knees feel hollow.
He stands across from me, hands clasped behind his back, and cocks his head. “Try to hit me. Once. That’s your only task.”
I blink. “With the sword?”
He laughs, then bows as if I’d made a clever joke. “Yes, with the sword. If you can.”
I take a breath and lunge. He steps aside, so quickly my eyes can’t track the motion, and taps my shoulder with his finger. “Try again.”
I grit my teeth and swing wide, then switch and jab, then duck low, all in quick succession.
King Ashton’s always just out of reach, sometimes leaning backward so far it looks like gravity should drag him down.
He doesn’t even draw a weapon. He just sidesteps, every time, then points out how I could have done it better.
He circles constantly, forcing me to turn, to track him, to guess where he’ll be next. My breath turns ragged. Sweat soaks the collar of my shirt. All the while, he keeps up a steady stream of nonsense, sometimes actual advice, sometimes a murmur just meant to distract.
“You’ve got great instincts, but your gaze is betraying you,” he says, stepping left as I overcommit to a swing. “You stare where you want to go. Next time, look at my shoulder, not my feet.”
His hands are everywhere, but never where I expect. Gliding across my hips. Grasping my shoulder. Rotating my hands. When he touches me, his touch is featherlight, more suggestion than command. He’s so much stronger than me, but it’s like he’s afraid even his light touch will bruise me.
It’s… distracting.
After five minutes, I’m ready to collapse. King Ashton is barely winded. He finally stops, catching my wrist as I overbalance on a lunge. He holds it long enough to steady me, then steps close and presses his palm over my eyes.
“Let’s try a trick,” he says, low, so only I can hear. “Wind fights best blind. You trust me?”
I don’t trust anyone. But I nod.
He produces a soft cloth from his sleeve and blindfolds me, gentle as a parent. “Other senses matter more than sight,” King Ashton says. “Hear my breath. Listen for my feet on the gravel. Try it.”
With the cloth tight over my eyes, I’m lost. I breathe in, and all I get is dust, sweat, and the faint tang of whatever the servants washed my shirt with. There’s a whisper of movement, then the briefest rustle of air, and I feel the weight shift behind me.
I turn, swinging the sword upward, and King Ashton laughs in delight. “See? Better already.”
He circles me again, faster, feet almost silent. I miss twice, but the third time I angle my body and listen for the tiniest shift, and my blade catches something soft, his sleeve, maybe.
He catches my shoulder, steadying me again, and this time his hand lingers a little longer than it needs to. He’s quiet, but the pressure of his palm says more than words. There’s pride there, and something else I can’t name.
“You’re a natural,” he whispers, so low it’s almost lost. “Told you there was a warrior in there.”
I pull the blindfold down and meet his gaze, surprised to find myself grinning. My arms hurt, my whole body shakes with exertion, but for once I don’t feel completely out of my depth.
He bows to me, just a little, then gestures at the others. “King Sylvian, she’s all yours. Try not to break her.”
I almost laugh, but then I remember who’s next.
King Sylvian stands, brushes imaginary dirt from his mossy green sleeves, and stretches his arms above his head.
There’s something so casual about the gesture it takes me a second to realize he’s mocking King Ashton’s showboating.
King Ashton just rolls his eyes, then blows a kiss in King Sylvian’s direction, which earns a genuine, easy smile.
“Are we done with the theatrics?” King Sylvian asks, not quite hiding the affection in his words.
“Only if you promise not to bore her to death,” King Ashton retorts.
King Sylvian shakes his head, then fixes his attention on me, and in that instant the world contracts to just the two of us. The other kings fade into background noise.
“I know you’re tired,” he says gently. “But earth teaches best when you’re tired. That’s when you learn what you’re made of.”