Page 32 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

“Was it?” I say, letting the challenge hang between us.

We reset. This time, he comes at me without restraint, with real speed and intent. This is the Ryewood who dismantled Hayes earlier, fluid and relentless, and I want every bit of it.

I meet him head-on. The thrill of the spar takes over, steel singing as I let him press me back, just enough to make him think he’s winning.

Then I drop low and sweep his legs.

He jumps, but I’m already too close when he lands, with my blade at his throat.

Silence snaps tight around us. Someone lets out a low breath.

“Two,” I say quietly.

He stills, surprise flickering across his face. Then he leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of him, letting my blade press more firmly against his throat.

“Impressive, little fox.” He says it barely above a whisper with his lips brushing my ear, like he’s been holding it in since the moment I walked in.

Every muscle in my body goes rigid at the name. Traitorous heat moves through me first, before I lock it down. Because I know, with cold sinking certainty, that this just became much more dangerous.

I step back first, creating space before the moment sharpens into something I can’t manage.

Then a voice cuts through the yard.

“Ryewood.”

The world tightens. Everyone shifts at once, spines straightening, chatter snapping off mid-word, and boots finding their proper angles. The King stands at the edge of the ring, too close, as if he’s been here long enough to see more than I meant to show. His gaze is on me, evaluating and measuring.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” the King says mildly, like he’s not weighing my worth.

I open my mouth, but Grier steps in first, and I feel it like a hand at my back.

“This is Gemira,” he says, sounding every bit the Commander. “The swordmaster Finn recommended.”

The King’s focus stays on me.

“Interesting eyes,” he murmurs. “Where did you say you were from?”

My pulse tries to climb, but I force it down.

“Terrath, Your Majesty.”

The King studies me, then he looks back to Grier. “Do you truly believe she can prepare my son for something as dangerous as the trials?”

“She beat me,” Ryewood says, stepping between us. “Twice.”

The King’s attention snaps to him.

“She beat you because you were clearly distracted, Ryewood. I could see it from across the yard.” It’s a public correction dressed as a casual observation.

Finn’s voice cuts in, careful but edged. “She’s incredibly skilled, Your Majesty. One of the best fighters I’ve ever seen.”

The King draws a slow breath in through his nose, then smiles, like a man offering a compromise.

“Then I’m sure you won’t mind a demonstration. For my own peace of mind, let’s see if she can match our most talented guard,” he says, gesturing toward the ring. It’s framed as courtesy, but we both know it’s an order.

Finn’s eyes cut to mine, the kind of look we’ve spent years perfecting. Not long enough for anyone else to read it. Just enough for me to answer. I give him the smallest nod. Do it.

“Gladly,” I say, knowing it’s the only acceptable answer.