Page 64 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

Gemma straightens, and when she turns toward the group, she’s the swordmaster again, professional and composed. The pain doesn’t leave her; it just gets buried. I want to go to her and pull her into my arms. That’s the worst part: the fact that she needs someone, and I have to stand here and pretend I’m not that person.

“Knife throwing today,” she announces.

Movement catches my eye. Voss is approaching, crossing from the atrium, unhurried and deliberate. He stops at the edge of the yard with his hands clasped behind his back and watches. Gemma goes rigid beside me, her body registering the threat before she smooths it away.

“Grab your blades. We’re riding out,” she calls over her shoulder. “We need more room than these walls can give us.”

She isn’t talking about the training. She’s talking about these walls and about who’s watching from inside them.

The group moves out. Hayes and Rosie drift together, and Finn hooks an arm around Grier’s shoulder. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I recognize the light tone, trying to pry loose what he’s carrying. The same treatment he gave me.

Gemma walks ahead. A couple of guards linger near the armory doors, pretending not to watch her. They’ve never been posted there before; they’re clearly here for her. Gemma doesn’t look at them, but her pace subtly shifts anyway.

I want to walk beside her. I want to tell her she’s not alone in this, that I would do anything, risk anything, to keep her safe. But I know I’m the reason the guards are there in the first place.

We reach the horses and ride out. The moment the castle starts to fall behind us, she loosens. She glances over her shoulder, and I feel the pull of her gaze but don’t answer it. I keep my horse back, holding the distance. But she lets hers slow, just enough that I end up beside her anyway, and I don’t have the strength to fall back twice.

“Bet you thought you’d gotten rid of me,” she says, aiming for teasing, but the words come out tight, like she had to dig them up from somewhere buried. It breaks something in me, seeing her have to try this hard.

“Please,” I say. “You’d miss me too much. Who else would happily let you wipe the floor with them on a daily basis?”

“Happily?” she says. “Is that what you call all the whining?”

“I wasn’t whining. I was providing a live commentary of my humiliation. You’re welcome. The yard deserves to know exactly which move made me eat dirt. I’m generous like that.”

“Ryewood, the benevolent leader,” she says, shaking her head, but there’s warmth in it now.

There’s the teasing edge back in her voice, and her eyes hold mine longer than they need to. She’s reaching for me, testing whether I’ll reach back. Ryewood. Not Rye. My chest aches with how badly I want to meet her there.

“I’ve been workshopping others,” I say, keeping my tone light and careful. “Ryewood, the Perpetually Disarmed. Ryewood, the Finder of the Ground.”

A laugh slips out of her, small and surprised. The sound lands hard, but I don’t chase it or try to earn another.

“So,” I say, straightening in my saddle, letting the warmth drain from my voice. “Where should I expect to embarrass myself today? Somewhere scenic, I hope?”

The shift is immediate; she feels it and schools her expression.

“Just past Terrath’s borders,” she says evenly. “Eastern side of Millhaven. There’s open space there for distance work.”

“Sounds perfect.”

She nods.

The loss of her lightness guts me, but I don’t try to get another laugh out of her. I just ride and hold the line.

When Millhaven comes into view, a clearing opens wide beyond the road, ringed by thick oaks with trunks broad enough to serve as targets.

Gemma moves through the space, pulling a knife from her belt and marking targets into bark with quick, efficient slashes. X after X carved into the wood.

“Line up,” she calls. “Arm’s length apart.”

We shuffle into position. Hayes and Rosie on one end, already standing close together. Finn’s next to me, twirling a blade between his fingers like it’s an extension of his hand. Grier takes up the far end, as far from Gemma as he can get while still being part of the group. I catch his eye for a moment, and there’s no hostility there, no competition. Just the line we’re both holding.

“We’re working on distance today,” Gemma says. “Most of you are competent at close range, and in real combat, you don’t always get close range.”

She paces in front of us, knife loose in her grip.

“Forty feet, fifty, sixty. That’s where it counts; that’s where most people miss.”