The order for Cillian’s reassignment hadn’t even been unpacked before it was overturned. The king himself summoned the captain of the guard in the dim pre-dawn light, his voice low but absolute.
“She is not a girl to be guarded by strangers,” King Ronan had said. “She must have someone who already knows where the knives will come from—and where to aim them back. Let it be him.”
No one questioned it after that.
Cillian didn’t ask for the king’s reasoning. He didn’t bow or gloat when the order was reversed. He simply returned to his post beside Elowen’s chamber as if he had never left.
The change was quiet, but the court was not. By noon, the whispers were everywhere—curling through corridors, trickling down the staircases, sliding like oil between fan-flutters and wine goblets.
“She’s kept him close all along,” one noblewoman murmured.
“The queen and her knight—how terribly romantic.”
Another voice followed with a bite. “Romantic? It’s reckless. He’s no more than a weapon she happens to enjoy holding.”
A third voice, cooler still, whispered, “She needs someone who won’t outshine her. A sword doesn’t speak.”
Elowen heard them. Not directly, never that. But the words reached her nonetheless—through nervous servants, half-open doors, and the way certain ladies glanced sideways at her in the great hall.
She didn’t react, not in front of them. But she stored their words like embers, letting them burn hotter with every breath.
At dawn the next morning, Elowen stood in the training yard, sword in hand. The frost clung stubbornly to the edges of the paving stones, and her breath curled into the air in short, white puffs.
Her fingers were stiff, her posture tense, but she did not back down.
Across from her, Cillian adjusted the wrap around his wrist, his expression unreadable. He offered her a practice blade without ceremony.
“You should know how to fight,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Not just talk about it.”
She raised the sword and stepped into the circle, her brow furrowing. “I’ve been fighting since the day I arrived in Denvyr. The only difference is now I get to use steel.”
He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “And yet you still hold it like a girl taught by books, not war.”
Her swing came fast and clumsy, and he caught it with ease, twisting the blade from her path. She nearly slipped, but caught herself, biting back a curse.
He stepped behind her without warning and adjusted her stance, his hand settling lightly on her waist.
“Your weight is wrong,” he murmured, close enough that she could feel his breath at her ear. “Shift. Here.”
She didn’t move at first. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I enjoy not watching you die.”
They moved again—step, parry, twist. His strikes were fast, but never cruel. Hers were passionate, but wild. Each correction brought him closer, until his voice became a rhythm in her bones.
He touched her elbow, her wrist, her spine, and each time it lingered just a second too long. Her cheeks flushed from more than the exertion.
“You’re fast when you stop thinking,” he said after their blades clashed again.
“Thinking’s how I survive.”
“Overthinking is how you lose.”
They locked blades again, faces only inches apart. Her hair had slipped from its braid, and she was breathless now, her grip slick with sweat.
And still, he didn’t break rhythm. Neither of them did.
“Try again,” he said, pulling back. “Aim low. I won’t expect it.”
“Oh, you expect everything,” she replied with a grin.
She lunged without warning. He blocked it, but only just. She ducked beneath his guard and struck toward his side—soft, angled, and fast.
Cillian’s blade flew wide. He let out a low breath and stepped back, nodding once, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You fight dirty.”
“And yet you still lose,” she said, flushed, triumphant, and too breathless to hide it.