Grae’s hand grabbed for my elbow and I whirled. Faster than he could lift his hand, I punched him hard in the jaw. My knuckles barked in protest, but I wasn’t done. I lashed out again, but he caught my forearm, trying to spin me back against his chest. I moved, pretending he was overpowering me so that I could kick him in the knee. He dropped my arm as he pivoted to keep me from breaking the joint and I dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch and snatching my knife from my boot.
Thank the Gods for Vellia and her training—I never carried just one weapon. Grae stooped as if to help me up and I lurched forward, making him stumble back into the wall as I pinned him in place with my knife.
His eyes went wide as he held up his hands. The tip of my blade bit into the flesh of his neck. With the slightest pressure, I knew the skin would break. With more pressure still, he’d be dead.
His surprise morphed as his lips parted into a smile and his eyes scanned my face. “Only you would dare put a knife to my throat.”
He was the son of the King, the second rank in our pack, and I was threatening to slit his throat. If anyone caught us, it would be enough to have me killed, or at the very least scarred like those Wolves in the great hall. No one threatened the pack . . . apart from its king.
Grae’s cheeks dimpled, and my eyes snagged on his mouth before my simmering rage pulled me back.
“You knew. This whole time, you knew, didn’t you?” I hissed, searching his eyes for an explanation. My gaze caught on the purpling bruise along his cheekbone. “Is that what you were trying to tell me?”
“No, I—”
“No, you weren’t going to tell us of your father’s true intentions?” I pressed my knife lower against his windpipe. “That the truth of who I am would live and die with me?”
Grae didn’t respond—couldn’t—the knife digging into his throat. I knew I should run away. This was a quick and dirty move, not one for having a conversation. He could easily overpower me if he was fast enough, but Grae didn’t move. I eased the pressure from him and he took a gasping breath.
“Thank you,” he rasped, touching a hand to his neck as I retreated to the far side of the hall.
I kept my blade aloft, pointed at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Grae shook his head, his face filled with regret. “I didn’t think he’d deny you like this.”
“Really?” I scowled. “Because I’ve known the man for a handful of minutes, and none of this surprises me.”
“I wanted to tell you, Calla, I did, but . . .”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “But?”
He rubbed a hand down his face. “I . . . I’ve always felt protective of you and I worried—”
“Well, you’ve done a great job protecting me.” The hilt of the knife bit into my clenched fist. “I didn’t need a protector, Grae.” I nodded to the red mark on his neck, flipping my knife over in my fingers and sheathing it back in my boot. “What I needed was a friend.”
I refused to let him see the tears welling in my eyes. Damn those tears. He had been my friend, but only for a few dozen moons as a child and nothing more. I’d become blinded by his handsomeness and charm, but now I saw him for what he really was: his father’s son. I stormed down the hallway, not waiting for his response, the walls feeling more and more like a prison with each step. Grae didn’t follow.
I didn’t return to Briar’s room. She could handle a few seamstresses on her own. Instead, I veered down a covered walkway and out to an open courtyard. The simple bench seats and weapons racks told me enough—these were training rings. If the space was for royalty, there’d be flower beds and fountains, but there was only a patch of dirt, marred by the divots of many boots.
The space was blissfully empty.
I shielded my eyes as I stared up the ivy-clad walls to the sun high above and ran my other shaking hand through my curls. Taking deep gulps of air, I paced back and forth, following the tread of boots along the dusty earth. This panic would help no one. Marching to the weapons racks, I pulled a heavy wooden sword from its hooks. My muscles strained as I swept it left and right, testing it in the air. If I couldn’t slow my racing heart, then at least I could work with it.
My boots carved a pattern in the dirt as I practiced my footwork. Block, block, strike. Block, block, strike. The steady rhythm focused my mind as the memories of the King’s office flashed through me. I should’ve known better, shouldn’t have believed that Gods-forsaken faery for all her wishy-washy promises. A pack, a family . . . No, this was just another type of cage.
My cheeks flushed, a mop of sweat breaking out on my brow as I swung the heavy sword. I’d been so hopeful—too hopeful—and for what? Even if King Nero had embraced me with open arms, the shadows I once reveled in were now my ultimate trap—unable to lead an army, unable to save my fallen kingdom like I’d trained for my entire life, watching as my twin and Grae married, started a family, and found some kind of happiness.
The sword whipped through the air faster, my shoulders burning as I pushed harder. Grae was the part that hurt most of all. I wished he’d never visited us, never wrote those letters, never pretended to care. It was the worst kind of cruelty—pretending to be kind—and I’d been the fool who’d fallen for it.
The sound of heavy footsteps made me whirl, and the three guards on the walkway halted. Sadie, Hector, and Maez glanced at each other and back at me. My boots were now caked in dirt, sweat stained my tunic, and I was certain my face was a startling shade of red. Whatever surprise was on their faces vanished in a blink.
“Oh good,” Sadie said, as if she were expecting me. “Now we can pair off.”
They must’ve known—must’ve seen the pain bleeding from my every breath—but they ignored it, and I was grateful. I wondered how many times each of them had found solace in a training ring. How many times did they find peace at the tip of their blades?
Hector unclasped his cloak and hung it on a hook. “I don’t suppose you had many sparring partners in Allesdale?” he asked, rolling his shoulders.
“Only the ones Vellia could conjure,” I replied, resting the tip of my heavy sword on the ground.
Maez’s eyebrows shot up. “Now that I would’ve liked to see.”
Hector rolled up the sleeves of his tunic. “What kind of creatures did she conjure?”
“All sorts,” I said with a shrug. “Snakes, soldiers, creatures of her own making.”
“But if they were conjured, could they actually land a blow?” Maez asked.
I pulled the neckline of my tunic wide over my shoulder, where three raised scars clawed over the joint and down my chest.
“Gods,” Hector breathed. “What did that?”
“A mountain cat,” I said, quirking my brow.
“And shifting didn’t heal the wound?”
The magic of changing forms could heal almost any wound, if done quickly enough. Every time we shifted into our furs and back again, our bodies were rebuilt, wounds healed, sore muscles eased. It was why Wolves lived nearly twice as long as humans; the shift seemed to fend off old age. There was something sacred about that moment between one form and the next—when we were both and neither. That was the magic the humans prayed to—the magic of change.