Page 31 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

The servants are clearly under the guard’s spell, though, flirting and eyeing the biceps through the short arms of their crimson-and-black uniform. Each one gets a wink and a soft smile from them, and there’s not a doubt in me that any of the servants would turn a blind eye to my blood on the floor if the guard asked them to.

Two hours later, I realize scarfing down the soda bread and cheese so quickly might’ve been a mistake.

Every muscle in my body burns from more variations of planks, twisting sit-ups, and lunges than I knew existed. The guard insists any practice, even starting now, will give me a better chance of surviving the Assay long enough to kill the High King.

If the training doesn’t kill me first.

“Your hips and core aren’t as limber as they should be,” they insist after another hour of running up and down the staircase at the end of my hall, eyeing me up and down with a frown. They’ve been taking notes on every exercise I do, no doubt cataloguing all my weaknesses to report back to Wolf. “That’s why you keep feeling like you’re losing your balance when your legs get tired. Building that stability is what’s going to help you duck and twist fast in a hand-to-hand fight.”

“We don’t exactly have stairs like this in Quayside,” I groan. “Nothing’s taller than—”

“Two stories,” the guard huffs. “I remember.”

“You’re one of us?” I follow them down the empty corridor and into my room, where the wood fire burns in the hearth, sweet and warm. There’s a reason we burn peat instead of wood in Quayside—wood is too expensive—and the extra beams it would take to reinforce a third story or anything higher? It’s out of the question.

The guard shrugs. “Used to be.”

“Ominous,” I murmur.

The guard tilts their head at me, a flicker of a question dancing in their warm brown eyes.

I seize the chance for distraction. “So, what are you now, then? How does a kid from Quayside become one of the gardai? Or… whatever it is you are.”

The warmth vanishes from the guard’s eyes. Both their hands go up, palms flat and facing me. “Thirty punches. Right now.”

I freeze. Burn marks twist around their palms, vicious pink scars of what must once have been melted flesh. As if they reached into a fire, or dug through charring piles of wood or coals.

Sweat stings my eyes. I wipe it away and search their face.

I’m close enough to see the spatter of freckles across their cheeks; the copper hair shorn close to their scalp is the color of the morning light. It streams through the open door on the far wall, leading to a small courtyard, one tiny perk in all this. The paned glass door lets in the sweet scent of climbing crimson tea roses and bog rosemary.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, and tighten my hands into fists. The first collides with their scarred palm with a light smack. When there’s no sign of it hurting them, I punch harder.

The guard lets out a tense breath. “Good,” they say gruffly, and nod. “Keep going.”

My blows rain down in the stillness stretching out around us.

“Did he force you into this too?” I ask after I lose count of the blows. My knuckles sting, but I rub at them and keep going. “Your leader.Wolf.”

“Wolf isn’t technically our leader.” The guard’s brow knots.

Interesting. “That’s not what I asked.”

“Well, it’s all the answer you’re getting.” Their mouth tilts up.

“You know plenty about me.” I arch a brow and cross both arms stubbornly.

Their hands curl into fists, then unclench. The edges of their eyes tighten, thinking. “No, Wolf didn’t force me into this.” Quiet determination is clear on their face. “Let’s just say I wanted answers. And now it’s my job to find them.”

I eye the guard warily. “You’re a spy for the Whisperers?”

They laugh. “You make it sound so formal.”

“Isn’t it?”

The guard shakes their head, smirking, like I’m not gettingany other answers on this from them. I try a different line of attack. My fist slams into their palms again and again with more force than I thought I had in me. Instantly, I feel lighter, and a fresh singe of energy jolts through my veins.

“Is. He. Always. Such. An. Asshole.” I punctuate each word with a punch.