Page 91 of A Thread of Breath and Bone

“He’s unsettled, angry, and muttering to himself.” My father’s eyes convey his sympathy. “I had to ward him last night. A healer has been to see him. He’s healthy, but his mind⁠—”

Her hand flies to her mouth as a noise that can only be described as a broken sob comes out. Her fingers tremble as her eyes fill with tears. “He’s alive?”

My father’s gaze tightens as he nods.

“Priana, dear. Why don’t we call for some tea? Bastian can get Aki settled in a room for his healing,” my mother says.

Ryker's jaw tightens as his mother breaks down, and the Bond between us hums with a heavy, metallic grief. I press my side into his, offering my body as strength for him to lean on.

In an instant, I see it all. The years of this heavy burden. These years of sacrifice, of anger, of being in a position where his whole family relied on him to carry them through this. I see the young man who became an adult overnight to make sure they didn’t suffer more than they already had.

His mask is intact for everyone but me. And those dark shadows under his eyes, the brokenness and years of loneliness…it tightens in my chest.

I wrap an arm around his waist, leaning in and holding him as much as I can, hoping that he knows he’s no longer alone—never has to be again. I will spend the rest of my life walking at his side, holding him when he’s weary and allowing him to hold me too.

Together.

I feel the tension leave his body as he wraps an arm around my shoulders, holding me tighter as if to say, thank you.

Queen Priana takes a seat with my mother, both women clinging to each other like old friends. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before—the years of companionship and trust.

Ryker places a quick kiss to my head, then leaves with my father.

With a shaky voice, Queen Priana glances up at me and says, “I’m so glad you’re here, despite my current state.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “I’m quite excited to host your Ceremony and wedding. Perhaps once you’ve settled, you’d be willing to show me your gowns?”

I find Trysten in the private gym. It’s complete with weights, machines, a sparring mat, and an array of weapons along the damp up lit wall. We’re below the palace, and down here, you can smell the sea as if these walls are the only barrier to water.

Trysten’s whiskey eyes find mine. “What are you doing here?”

I blow out a long breath, finding some wrap on a shelf. “I need to blow off some steam. Please don’t hold back.”

He looks at me with a light glint in his eye. “Does Ryker know you’re down here?”

“Who do you think told me where to find you?”

He nods and agrees to spar with me, obviously aware that I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t mean it. Sure I’ve been training everyday, but Trysten won’t hold back. He’s never treated me like I’m fragile. He pushes me as hard as he pushes himself. If it wasn’t for him working with me all year, I’d never have the faith in myself to withstand the coming war.

Not that I am a great warrior now, but the Raea from last year wouldn’t have lasted a second. Trysten has given me a chance. Same as Professor Ainslyn. And between the two of them, I might survive.

Trysten rips off his shirt, exposing the hard lines of his body. I do the same, leaving me in a sports bra and leggings. My hair is braided up into a crown—another Trysten suggestion so that my hair won’t become a weakness—and with a few breaths, I step onto the mat.

The lighting down here is dim and moody, and Trysten is cast in shadows as he watches me.

“Ready?” he asks.

When he tells me to watch my side, it isn't a combat lesson—it’s a warning for the politics waiting for us upstairs.

My ring hanging on my necklace catches the dim torchlight as I turn in place, a reminder that I am training to protect the choice I made, not the crown I wear.

He circles me. The mats beneath my bare feet are cool, the air heavy with heat from the torches lining the walls. Trysten watches me like a wolf that knows he’s the stronger predator. “Don’t hold back this time, Princess. We never got a chance to test you with the silent attack. I’m bummed. I was truly looking forward to it.”

The way he says it—half challenge, half tease—sparks something sharp in my chest. I drop into stance, knees bent, shoulders loose, remembering the rhythm he’s drilled into me: breathe, move, strike.

He moves first, a blur of motion that barely registers before I duck. His fist flies past my cheek, shifting the air next to my face.

Too close.

I twist and drive my elbow toward his ribs, but he catches my arm mid-swing, spinning me with a grunt.