Page 27 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

“The markets,” I say, far too fast. “One of the vendors.”

“The markets,” he repeats.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Describe the vendor,” he says, stepping closer, with his eyes fixed like he’s found what he was looking for.

“She has gray hair, wears a shawl, and sells bread near the eastern markets,” I say.

For a moment, he looks like a man pulled backward, somewhere far from here. He’s tall, a head above most, same as me, but he looks small in it somehow. His hand finds his pocket and works whatever is in there, slow and deliberate. Then he settles back into himself and turns to walk away.

“Back to your training,” he says over his shoulder.

When he finally turns the corner back into the throne room, the yard releases all at once. Rye’s knees buckle, and Hayes catches him before he hits the dirt. Grier and I move at the same time.

Up close, the damage is obvious. Blood has soaked through the bandage on Rye’s arm, dark and spreading.

“We’re going to the infirmary,” Grier says.

We move Rye off the ring. A sharp breath tears loose when his arm moves wrong. Hayes takes his weight, and Rye lets him.

Inside the infirmary, the healer takes one look and waves us forward. We lower Rye onto the table. She’s already cutting away the ruined bandage with practiced ease.

Hayes steps closer with one hand braced on the table, like he’s holding the room together by force of will.

“I need space,” the healer says. “All of you out.”

“I’m staying,” Hayes says immediately.

She looks up, irritation ready, then recognition flickers and her tone shifts. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Grier’s hand closes firmly around my shoulder, guiding me back into the corridor.

“What was that?” he says.

I rake a hand through my hair and pace, unable to stay still, my thoughts spiraling.

“I don’t know why I said it,” I say. “It just…came out.”

“Where did it come from?”

I stop mid-step and look at him. “My mother,” I say.

Grier shifts his weight, not much but enough, like my panic is justified.

“She used to say it when we trained, when we complained,” I explain. “I’ve never seen him fixate like that.”

Grier steps closer until there’s nowhere else for my attention to go.

“You need to breathe,” he says, low and even. “And stop moving like prey.”

My hands clench at my sides.

“Go home,” he continues. “But go like you’re returning for a meal. Not like your blood’s on fire.”

I hold his gaze. My jaw aches from how hard it’s set.

“If you bolt right now, he’ll smell it. You need to stay calm.”