Everyone except Kyor.

Silence engulfs the yard, every pair of eyes on the prince. A single bead of sweat weaves down his forehead as he remains perfectly motionless, other than the slightest coil at the corner of his mouth.

‘I win,’ he says simply to Holden.

The trainer’s cheeks pull inwards and he offers Kyor something between a smile and a grimace.

‘Very impressive, Your Royal Highness, as always.’

Kyor scoffs, and it’s with a sense of satisfaction that I realise he cares as much about Holden’s compliments as I do.

‘I guess that means training’s done for the day,’ Kyor notes. Still standing, he surveys the rest of the Rettlings with narrowed eyes. ‘Looks like the healers will be busy again,’ he says. When his eyes land on me, his icy gaze locks on my eyes before travelling down towards my chest.

Only then do I remember. I burned my top so Yeva could have ash to fight with, and now I’m out here in nothing but a black bra. Sweat drips down my skin, flowing over the beginnings of the burns reignited by Zara’s powers. I should shrink away from his gaze, but I don’t. Instead, I push my shoulders back. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.

‘I prefer this look on you,’ he says, his eyes offering the slightest hint of a twinkle before he sobers. ‘Everyone clear out. I want the battle yard.’

The ringing command in his voice cannot be ignored, and we all scramble inside.

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Chapter 33

Iwake in pitch-black darkness the next morning, Loch’s indistinct muttering resonating through the room. Trying my hardest not to wake anyone, I rummage around for my clothes. My choices are limited after half my wardrobe was sent up in flames by the Rowell Rettlings.

I hope Zelle will be ready to train me today. The fiasco yesterday with Holden only served to underline that, at the very least, I need to improve my proficiency with weapons.

Still bleary-eyed, I head into the battle yard, but as I approach the weapons cache, it’s not Zelle who waits for me, but Kyor.

‘What are you doing here?’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

‘I said I’d train you. Zelle’s out, so I’m in. Have you eaten?’

‘At this time of morning? No.’

‘You need energy to spar. Eat before you come next time. Something light, but something. Now.’ His eyes glitter in the darkness. ‘Let’s see if that footwork of yours has got any better.’

I don’t even try to stop my groan. I’m truly beginning to despise footwork. Though somehow my body seems to be recalling the training from my youth, my conscious thoughts and memories of them are hazy, like a veil has been drawn over the forms.

‘Your stance is too narrow.’ He glares at me as I crouch into position. ‘And you need to be more side-on.’

I shift myself slightly, and he sniffs.

‘Better. Now come for me.’ He swings a seax, the small fighting dagger whirling casually in his hand.

‘Without a weapon?’ I question.

‘Until you can show me your feet know what they’re doing, yes.’

I lunge towards him, which feels insane without a weapon. Not that I think it would help me. It feels like every other move I make, he’s correcting something, from the position of my shoulders to the angle of my back foot. I know it’s needed, but by the Gods, why does it always have to be footwork? After ten minutes he tells me to grab a seax blade of my own, though I don’t know whether my footwork actually got better or if he’s just bored and wants to change it up.

‘You know the aim is to hit me?’ He smirks as he sidesteps another of my strikes. A couple have landed close to his body, though he blocked them easily using the short length of his blade. If he had a shield, too, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

By the time Kyor calls an end to our session, I’m sweating profusely. With my muscles burning, I go to replace the sword in the cabinet, only for his hand to grab hold of my wrist.

‘It doesn’t go there.’

As I turn, I find myself only inches away from him. My chest is heaving and sweat beads on my skin as his eyes hold mine with unwavering ease. We’re too damned close. Our fingers brush as he takes the sword from me, and a spark of something sizzles between us. I catch my breath.

His eyes miss nothing. ‘You might well hate me, Thorn,’ he murmurs, closing the already minimal distance between us, ‘but you want me too.’

He’s not wrong, but I’ll deny it to my dying breath.

I swallow hard. ‘Gods, you’re an asshole. Has anyone ever told you that you’re ridiculously arrogant?’

He smiles at that, and I hate that I like the curve of his lips and the way my gaze involuntarily traces it. Gods forgive me, but it’s hard to deny they look so damned kissable.

‘Many times,’ he says easily, ‘but that doesn’t mean I’m not right.’ He leans in so that there’s barely a hair’s breadth between us. My lungs seize. If he kisses me now, I don’t know what I’ll do. Hit him, that’s for sure, but maybe not until I check whether he tastes as good as I imagine he does. My eyes fall closed as I try to push the ridiculous thought from my head, and I notice the sudden lightness in my hand. When I open my eyes again, Kyor has the sword that I held only moments ago firmly in his grasp and a smirk on his lips.

‘It goes here.’ As he slides the seax into position in the cabinet, his eyes don’t move off mine. ‘You look a little flustered, Thorn. Perhaps you could do with a shower to cool off. I could always help scrub your back, if you’d like?’

‘You know I hate you, right?’ I whisper.

‘That’s what would make it feel so good.’

His laughter follows me out of the battle yard as I all but sprint away, and I hate him a tiny bit more.

‘I know we all hate him,’ Kestria says, ‘but we can admit that what he did yesterday was incredibly hot, right?’ A bond was forged in yesterday’s battle, and Kestria and Seiren have moved over to our table for meals. Seiren is sitting at the far end with Loch, and though it would be unfair to call it the weird end of the table, the way they both stare off into the ether, only occasionally dropping in a comment, doesn’t exactly scream normal. Still, I can’t imagine what it was like for Loch. What it must have been like to be able to hear everything on the beach – every scream, every gargling, blood-filled last breath, every pained cry from the dying as crystal clear to him as the chiming of a bell.

‘Why do you hate him?’ I ask. I’m happy to expand the club of people who detest Kyor, but I’d like to know their reasons. Other than Estel, I assumed I was the only one with a direct cause to hate him personally, as I’m pretty sure that Llinos and Benny just hate him out of loyalty, and Jonas is too much of a sycophant to actually say anything outright against the future monarch.

‘Other than his arrogance?’ Kestria questions. ‘I’ve heard stuff about some of the battles he led up by Agoyd. So many people died, and the statements given out by him and the palace about what happened just don’t match up with what people on the ground said.’

‘You mean he lied to cover his own back?’ A dry laugh crackles from my throat. ‘Sounds like Kyor.’

‘To be honest, I’m wondering why Etta bothered letting anyone else into the trials,’ she says. ‘I can’t imagine there’s any way to defeat him. That man has no weaknesses. Physically, anyway.’

I’d love to say I hadn’t noticed, but that just wouldn’t be true. He is a damn fine specimen of a human, and though I try not to think about it while I’m awake, sleep’s a different matter. It’s embarrassing the number of times he’s slipped into my dreams, though what’s more embarrassing are the things I’ve let him do to me in them. It’s just a trauma response, I’m sure. Trauma and sexual frustration.