Chapter Eight
Alaya
Well, that was a disaster!
I presumed things would get easier after agreeing to Prince Kiernan’s request that we pretend civility in public, yet he seems more irritated than ever.
After being dismissed from the dance lesson—my partner being absent and all—I felt an overwhelming need for my happy place. So I’m making my way to the Western Pasture.
As I eagerly anticipate seeing Heller and relaxing for a few hours without any pressures about wedding arrangements, I pass by the Training Grounds.
The rasping clash of swords and grunts of exertion drift towards me.
Excitement flutters in my chest—perhaps the Thorn Guards are out.
I do a quick scan of the area, drop to my belly, and shuffle up the small grass hill, peeking carefully over the apex.
My heart sinks when I notice the Training Grounds are mostly empty.
I spot two tall figures clad in dark ebony armour and wearing menacing spiky black helmets, working in one of the close combat rings at the far end.
I inch back and rise slightly, stooping to avoid detection as I creep closer.
As I do, I notice a third, smaller figure with them.
When I drop back to my belly and peek over, I have a much clearer view.
The third figure is Prince Kiernan.
What are they doing?
I watch with rapt attention as the two Thorn Guards circle each other.
Within the blink of an eye, one of them moves—much quicker than should be physically possible for something that size.
Its black sword glints like starlight as the sun catches the razor-sharp blade, arcing towards its fight mate.
The strength behind the lunge is evident even from this distance.
As the other Thorn Guard dodges the sweep, the sword hits a thick wooden post beside the ring with a heavy thud. The post explodes into hundreds of splinters, the Thorn Guard letting out a roar.
I’ve seen the Thorn Guards spar before and witnessed their strength, single-minded aggression, and stoic focus—emotion channelled entirely into the discipline of the fight.
This is entirely beyond that. This is the static feel of power in the air, their strength amplified to the point of being a destructive primal force.
True annihilation packaged into one shadowed soldier.
I almost rise to intervene when Prince Kiernan motions to the nearest Thorn Guard with a flick of his hand. Its soulless gaze turns its full attention to him.
Is he crazy?
As he readies himself, heat floods my cheeks—and lower.
He’s bare-chested, and I can’t tear my eyes away.
His physique is lean but broad, every inch of him honed by relentless discipline, and Gods, it shows.
My gaze traces the ridges of his arms, lingering on each defined muscle that flexes as he moves.
His pectorals are carved like stone, hard planes that taper into sharp, powerful shoulders.
I shouldn’t be staring like this, but I am.
A light smattering of black hair starts at his chest and runs down in a thin line between lightly etched abdominal muscles, over his flat stomach, finishing just above the belt of his rough-worn black trousers that sit low on his hips, accentuating the long, athletic line of his torso.
He is the epitome of focused power and fluid motion—less about brute strength and more about being dangerously effective.
And this rough, carefree version of the Prince is making that heat drop into my belly. My body’s inadvertent reaction to him makes me shake my head in bewilderment.
He starts sparring with the Thorn Guard while the other looks on.
Prince Kiernan plays his smaller stature against the Guard’s massive bulk, making quick movements with his feet and sword, but the Thorn Guard’s strength begins to overpower him.
As he takes a nasty slash to the arm, I see the exact moment his Amplifier Gift flares.
His muscles ripple, his eyes flash with power, and energy dances on his skin like hundreds of tiny sparks of lightning.
When he makes his next move, the raw power staggers the Thorn Guard a step back.
He is beautiful in his violence, and I am in awe.
They spar a little longer, and I’m unable to tear my eyes away from the savage dance being performed. Eventually, they finish, and the Thorn Guards make their way back to the Barracks. I’m just about to scoot back down the hill when I hear him call out.
“Did you get a good look, Alaya?”
Now I feel hot and bothered for an entirely different reason. I pop my head over the rise, embarrassed he’s known I was here all along.
He motions me to come down, so I rise and carefully descend to the Training Grounds’ sandy floor.
When I reach him, Prince Kiernan is smiling and giving me a knowing look.
“How long did you know I was there?” I ask, flustered.
“Since I saw your head bobbing up repeatedly. You’re terrible at hiding.” He laughs.
“What were you doing?”
“My father usually sends me out to work with the Thorn Guards during battles, using my Amplifier Gift. We were just practicing my projecting, which is weak.” He bows his head slightly.
“It was amazing to watch,” I reply shyly, still mortified he caught me staring.
He picks up his white shirt from outside the ring and pulls it on. I admit—though not out loud—that I’m a little disappointed.
“I’ve heard you’re handy with a sword,” he says.
“Oh, not really. My mother was a Warrior and a Thorn Guard trainee, so she showed me a few moves. More the basics of protection than anything else.”
Prince Kiernan bends down to grab a couple of light-looking swords from the ground. He flips one in the air and catches it by the blade, holding it out to me hilt first.
“No, I can’t.” I say. “I’ll probably be so clumsy with this thing I’ll end up stabbing you.”
“It’s a training sword, blunt. I promise you—if you manage to get it anywhere near me, you can hit me with it as hard as you like.” He chuckles, low and amused, as though the very idea of me landing a blow is laughable.
I once again marvel at this carefree, relaxed Prince. I’m so used to seeing him pent up with tension and responsibility that it’s confusing. He definitely seems to have worked out whatever was bothering him after the dancing lesson.
He wiggles it at me again, and I take it. It’s surprisingly light, and I note that the blade is smooth and dull.
“It’ll still hurt, but it’ll leave a bruise more than a cut.” He nods at the sword in my hand. “I assume your mother showed you how to hold it?”
“Of course.” I wrap my fingers around the worn leather grip, keeping my hold relaxed as I sweep the sword a few times to get a feel for it.
When I look up, Prince Kiernan is leaning on his own sword and smirking, though I think I catch a small twitch of surprise.
“Okay, come at me with your best,” he goads.
I step inside the round rope of the ring and start to move around him, trying to assess how to proceed. He moves like a dancer, light on his feet, as he follows my movements. Then I lunge.
I’m adequate with a sword—especially for my limited training with it—but Prince Kiernan is a master.
He lets me press my attacks, deflecting my blows with an almost languid ease, his eyes never leaving mine.
He isn’t just parrying; he’s reading me, anticipating my next move before I even fully commit.
I feign a cut to his left, hoping to draw his guard, then spin into a rapid thrust aimed at his chest. Prince Kiernan’s sword meets mine with a ringing clang, deflecting it wide with a flick of his wrist. He steps into me, his movements too fast for me to counter.
In a swift, practiced motion, he spins, bringing his sword up and across, catching my blade with his own in a disarming twist. My sword thuds to the sand as he closes the distance further, and I feel the heat from his exertion radiating off him.
One strong hand catches my wrist, twisting it gently but firmly, while his other arm sweeps around my waist. Before I can react, my feet are swept from beneath me, and my head spins.
I land with a soft thud in the sand on my back.
Prince Kiernan is instantly above me, his body a warm, solid weight.
My chest heaves from the exertion, my eyes wide as I look up into his.
He’s holding his training sword in is hand—firm but not threatening—its tip resting gently against the hollow of my throat.
Though dull, the tip has a nick, and it scrapes my skin.
I feel a drop of blood tickling down my throat.
His gaze—usually sharp and intense—now holds a hint of playful triumph.
Pinned beneath him, disarmed and breathless, I can feel the faint tremor in his arm, the controlled strength of his body.
My cheeks, already flushed from the fight, flare with heat.
He’s close enough that I feel his breath, feel the subtle thump of his heart, smell the clean, metallic scent of sweat and steel.
His eyes lock onto mine, and slowly, he lowers his head until his lips hover so close that even the smallest movement would close the distance between us.
My breathing turns shallow and deliberate, matching his rhythm.
The silence and his intent swells around us, thick and weighted, broken only by the faint, insistent whisper of our racing pulses.
“You cheated,” I breathe out in a rush, his closeness suffocating as a war of loathing and lust floods through me.
“I don’t cheat,” he replies, a flash of anger crossing his face.
“Like father, like son,” I say, then instantly regret it—a spiteful, instinctive response born from my conflicted feelings.
He hisses through clenched teeth, and I flinch as he rams the sword down into the sand beside my head.
“You—Know—Nothing.” He punctuates each word into my face, then quickly jumps to his feet. I gasp as the pressure of his body releases. I rise and dust myself off, and he steps away, his head raised to look at the sky.