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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T he sky over Halberry Castle was a muted blue, clouds sweeping over its expanse.

The wind blew restlessly through the grounds, whistling through the trees.

The training yard just beyond the barracks stretched all the way to the curtain walls, grass trampled flat where Torrin’s men drilled each morning.

Now, the field stood quiet, save for the soft grunts of a woman and the muffled thud of boots against earth.

Valora was there, with a blade in her hand.

For a moment, Torrin watched her from afar, wondering just what it was that she was doing, but then he observed her movements—familiar, if not entirely natural.

She was copying what she had seen him and Noah do, he realized, or was at least trying to do so.

Her movements were stilted, her steps faltering, but the motions were there, clear as day.

"Good afternoon’, lass," he called to her, and immediately, Valora came to a halt, her cheeks heating as though she was a child caught stealing bannocks. He couldn’t help but laugh at her reaction, her embarrassment.

It was rather charming, he thought, how she was so quick to shyness, how she felt like she had been caught red-handed.

"Good afternoon," she echoed back to him. "What are ye daein’ here? Ye should be restin’."

"Ach, ye sound just like me council," said Torrin, waving his hand dismissively. "I’m fine, I promise."

"Ye have a gash from yer ribs tae yer abdomen," Valora reminded him. "Ye shouldnae be walkin’ like this out here on yer own."

"Well, I’m nae on me own now, am I?"

Valora gave him an unimpressed look, but Torrin only grinned at her, shrugging a shoulder.

"Truly," he insisted. "I’m fine."

She looked far from convinced, and Torrin couldn’t blame her. Though he was still in pain, still stiff, and still probably in need of plenty of rest, he couldn’t stay still. No matter how much he tried, he kept needing to walk, to blow off some steam when he was feeling so restless.

"What are ye daein’ here?" he asked her, simply to change the subject.

If it was even possible, Valora turned a deeper shade of red.

"I’m tryin’ tae practice," she said, her voice small. "After what happened… after bein’ taken like that an’ then seein’ ye…

seein’ ye hurt an’ covered in blood when there was naethin’ I could dae about it, I kent I had tae change somethin’. I had tae learn how tae defend meself."

Torrin couldn’t claim not to understand.

He, too, had felt helpless in the past, watching the people he cared about be hurt.

His parents had died, leaving him behind all alone, and there had been nothing he could have done to stop it or change it.

So, seeing Valora there, trying her best to learn on her own, to teach herself how to defend herself and those she wanted to protect, moved him beyond words.

"How about I show ye?" he offered, but Valora was quick to throw her hands up in exasperation.

"Ye’re hurt!" she reminded him. "Ye’ve been seriously stabbed! In the ribs!"

"Under the ribs, technically," Torrin pointed out. "But as I said, I’m fine. There is naethin’ tae fash about. If it hurts, I’ll let ye ken."

"I’m sure ye willnae."

"I promise I will."

Valora narrowed her eyes at him as though she didn’t quite believe him, though Torrin didn’t think that was a fair assessment of him.

He truly would tell her if he was in pain, but he doubted it would be an issue.

Some movement would be good for him, he told himself.

He wasn’t going to fight her, after all—there would be a good chance of hurting her, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

He was simply going to show her a thing or two, so she could get comfortable with that blade she held so tightly in her hand.

"I promise I’ll be careful," he said as a last resort, and with a heavy, long-suffering sigh, Valora made a vague gesture that seemed to him as though she was giving him permission.

Torrin then stood across from her, eyes narrowed—not with irritation, but calculation—as he pulled out his dirk and flipped it once in the air, catching it as it fell back down.

"Ye’ll stab yerself in the end," Valora warned him.

"Ach, I doubt it," said Torrin without a care in the world. "I dae this all the time."

That didn’t seem to impress Valora very much either. For a moment, the two of them simply stared at each other, standing still and silent a few feet apart, as Torrin began to wonder what the best way was to teach her how to use that blade.

"Relax yer grip," he said. "Nae so much that ye lose the dirk, but enough so that yer fingers dinnae hurt."

Valora cleared her throat, looking down at her hand—the bone-white knuckles, the skin stretched thin over them. Slowly, she relaxed her grip, and even though it was still too tight for Torrin’s liking, he thought it was enough for the meantime.

Better tae have it tight than too loose.

"Good," he said. "What ye were daein’ afore… t’was good, but ye need tae keep yer eyes on the target, always. Dinnae look at yer hand. Look at the enemy’s hand."

"But I dinnae have an enemy," Valora pointed out.

"Ye dae now," Torrin told her, opening his arms wide as if to say he was standing right there.

At first, Valora hesitated, just as Torrin had expected her to. She truly feared she would hurt him, it seemed, and no matter how much he reassured her, she wouldn’t make the first move.

So, he did.

He made a move towards her, his movements still a little stiff, but good enough to spar.

Pain shot through his torso as he took the first few steps, but it soon faded, his body adjusting to it.

He needed the practice just as much as she did; he needed to move, to get his body back to normal.

He needed to get used to the pain of that movement, just in case he had to fight while wounded—something that seemed more than likely, almost unavoidable.

Valora yelped and moved out of the way just in time, sidestepping him. Laughing softly, Torrin came to a halt just as he ran past her, spinning around once he stopped to face her.

"That isnae how ye fight," he pointed out. "That is how ye run."

"What will ye have me dae?" Valora demanded. "If I try tae fight ye, I might hurt ye!"

"Ye willnae hurt me," Torrin assured her. "I can handle it, I promise ye. Come… try."

Valora hesitated, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, but then she did as she was told, perhaps exasperated by his insistence. She charged at Torrin, her practice blade held high—too high—and Torrin was quick to deflect it, using the hilt of his dirk.

As Valora stepped back, Torrin laughed softly, rolling his shoulders. "Ye willnae impress me like this, lass."

Valora raised the practice sword again, adjusting her grip. "I’m nae tryin’ tae impress ye."

"Well, ye are daein’ a spectacular job, then."

His tone was light, teasing, but Valora didn’t laugh, nor did she give him another moment or notice before she lunged again. Torrin quickly stepped aside, just enough to evade her blade and flick it aside with the flat of his own. Their weapons hissed as they slid apart.

Valora wasn’t experienced, but even so, Torrin could tell that she wasn’t putting her maximum effort behind her blows. There was more to her, she was simply afraid to use it.

"Ye’re holdin’ back," he said.

Scowling, Valora wiped sweat off her brow. "Like I said, ye’re hurt."

"I’m fine," said Torrin, giving her a look that lingered, slow and deliberate. "So, stop pretendin’ either o’ us is so fragile."

Valora gave him a look of disbelief, her mouth hanging open for a moment. Then, she moved again—this time quicker, determined. He parried, but she twisted low, kicked him in the shin, and sent him staggering. Before he could recover, she surged forward and jabbed her wooden blade against his ribs.

A satisfying thump. She stepped back, panting, triumphant.

Torrin blinked once, surprise and understanding coming upon him at once.

He was hurt, that much was true, and so he was far slower than he would have been under any other circumstances, but that didn’t make Valora’s effort any less impressive.

This was the first time she had fought anyone, so her skills, unpolished as they were, were not something Torrin would have expected from her.

For a while, he was silent, contemplating the blow. Then he smirked. "Well done."

"Thank ye," said Valora, clearly pleased with herself.

"I was bein’ charitable," Torrin said with a shrug.

Valora arched a brow. "Were ye?"

He laughed, shaking his head. Of course, he wasn’t; Valora had simply managed to catch him by surprise.

For a moment, he observed her, taking in her stance, the way she held that practice blade—but then his stance shifted.

In one swift motion, he stepped forward, wrapped an arm around her waist, and they tumbled into the grass, rolling once, twice, before he found himself hovering over her, pinning her down to the ground.

His breath was uneven, but not from exertion.

His hands trembled, aching to touch her.

Their bodies were aligned chest to chest, legs tangled, the fine wool of his tunic rough against the front of her bodice.

His hand braced beside her head, the other still hooked lightly behind her back.

The air between them seemed to spark, the air igniting with everything that was still unspoken between them.

Valora didn’t move. Neither did he. The entire world seemed to come to a standstill, as if nature herself was waiting for them.

His gaze dropped to her lips, then lower—to the hollow of her throat, rising and falling rapidly. He felt the heat of her, the ache of longing, the sharp awareness of every place their bodies touched. When he finally looked up at her again, his voice was low as he spoke.