Page 30 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

“It’s the only way,” I say. We both know this is our last chance. It’s been over a month of searching and circling dead ends while our mother is somewhere inside the castle.

Finn nods, but his jaw stays set, and the crease between his brows deepens. He’s terrified, not for himself, but for me.

“I can do this,” I tell him, and I try to mean it, because I have to.

We round the corner, and the training yard opens up. Men linger along the perimeter as we pass, their eyes tracking us instead of drifting. And there, in the center of it, Ryewood and Hayesland are sparring.

I’ve seen Ryewood fight before, in the pre-dawn darkness, stripped down to survival and instinct. This is different. In full daylight there’s nothing to soften the edges, and I can’t stop myself from staring. The way he moves is effortless and precise, every strike measured. His footwork is flawless, with his weight shifting like the ground yields to him.

He’s stronger than Hayesland; that much is obvious. Hayesland has more control, but Ryewood moves around it like it’s nothing.

Sweat darkens his shirt, and the fabric clings to him with every shift of his muscles. I lock my jaw and force my attention outward, on the yard, the guards, the exits, on anything but him. I knew he was attractive; it’s hard not to notice that even in the dark. But this, open, unguarded and fully himself, this is a problem.

I told myself a month apart would be enough to kill it. That everything with Mom would bury whatever this is. I was wrong.

“Gemma.”

Finn’s voice snaps me back, and I realize I’ve stopped walking. I shift my weight, forcing it forward, and remind myself why I’m here. Not for him, but for our mother, and for the spaces we haven’t reached yet.

Grier stands at the edge of the yard, with his arms crossed, posture closed and formal in a way I’ve never seen before. He spots us, and concern crosses his face before he buries it.

We’re close enough now to hear the rhythm of the fight. Then Ryewood glances over mid-parry and stills the moment his eyes land on me. Hayesland’s blade cuts in. Ryewood scrambles, barely catching the strike. He recovers, but his attention slides back to me again.

My muscles go taut.

He’s only ever seen me in the dark, in lamplight and shadow, the kind that blurs edges and softens details, with a mask always covering my face. I look nothing like that girl now. I’m in training leathers instead of a costume, hair pulled back instead of loose. There’s no reason he should recognize me, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me.

Then Ryewood’s attention locks back on the fight with a focus that wasn’t there before, like he has a reason to win. He drives into Hayesland with a flurry of strikes, faster and harder, giving no space or mercy. He’s showing off, for me, in front of the whole yard.

Hayesland blocks the first few, but Ryewood doesn’t give him room to reset. He’s all fluid motion and controlled force, each strike feeding the next with a precision that makes it look effortless, though I know better.

He steps into his brother’s guard, and with a twist of his wrist, Hayesland’s sword hits the ground. Ryewood’s blade rests at his throat.

Hayesland lifts his hands, laughter breaking through the exertion. “Fuck, Rye.”

Ryewood steps back, satisfaction written across his face. Then his eyes find mine again, and his grin eases into a quiet intensity that makes the yard dissolve at the edges until there’s only us.

“All right,” Grier cuts in, voice carrying across the yard. “Good work. Come meet your new swordmaster.”

Both princes turn fully toward us.

I straighten without thinking. Finn gives me the barest nod, and it steadies me the way it always does. I step forward with him. There’s no turning back now.

Ryewood’s gaze never leaves me as we close the distance. There’s something in it that should set every alarm I have ringing. Instead, heat blooms in my chest, dangerous in a way I can’t afford.

Finn starts, formal and careful. “This is Gemira.”

“Most people call me Gemma,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Gemma,” Ryewood slowly repeats my name, like he’s tasting the sound.

Hayesland steps forward first, offering me his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

His handshake is warm and polite.

“The pleasure’s mine, Your Highness.”

“Please—Hayes,” he says politely. “If you’re training us, formality seems hardly necessary.”