A Vow So Bold and Deadly (Cursebreakers, #3)(28)

For weeks, I’ve thought it stemmed from a lack of trust in me.

Today, seeing it in front of Lia Mara, I wonder if it’s a lack of trust in her. She may have inspired gratitude in that serving girl with gentle kindness, but that won’t work here.

My eyes flick across the groups sparring on the grounds, the more experienced officers leading the newest recruits in drills. I’m not surprised to see Nolla Verin among them, her hair in twin braids she’s twisted across the back of her head. The soldiers fighting with her aren’t defiant and shifty at all—but she’d probably pin them to the turf if they were. I expect to see Tycho in the group, but when I cast my gaze across the younger recruits, I discover that he’s not on the battlefield.

“Jake,” I call. “Where’s Tycho?”

He steps out of his sparring group and shoves sweat-damp hair back from his forehead, looking over at the recruits. “I have … no idea.”

Solt, the captain who gives me the most trouble, is leading the sparring group in front of me, and he snorts without missing a parry with his sword. “Probably fawning over that demon,” he says in Syssalah, and his opponent, a younger recruit named Hazen, snorts with laughter.

They mean Iisak. Solt might think I can’t understand him, but I do.

Lia Mara definitely does.

“The scraver is a friend and ally,” she says coolly. “As is Tycho.”

Solt disarms Hazen easily, but neither of them are taking it seriously now. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He salutes her with his sword, touching the flat side of the blade to his forehead, but there’s no deference in his tone. Instead, there’s a hint of mockery.

Lia Mara sucks in a breath to retort, but her eyes are locked on his sword, and she seems to freeze.

It’s like the moment in the tavern, but this time, he really does have a weapon.

If I can feel her fear, likely everyone else on this field can feel it, too. I see the moment it registers in Solt’s eyes, because there’s a flicker of surprise, quickly followed by disdain. Even Hazen’s expression is shadowed with impudence when he mutters under his breath to one of the other soldiers.

Solt exhales dismissively, then sheathes his sword and turns away to allow another two to spar.

“Captain,” I snap.

Lia Mara catches my hand. “Grey.” Her fingers are tense against my palm, her voice barely a whisper. She expects me to do what Nolla Verin did, or possibly what her guards did. She expects me to undermine her, to rule over her. Maybe she even thinks I’ll draw my own sword and spill his blood right here in the grass. I can see Nolla Verin watching, and she definitely would.

I don’t. “Run the drill again,” I say.

Solt hesitates, and his eyes narrow, but he turns back. Hazen frowns and steps back out of line, casting a dark look my way.

No one here likes me.

But they fight. Swords clash and spark in the sunlight.

The battle ends exactly the same way. Going through the motions, making little effort. Following the order to the letter, but nothing more. Hazen mutters something to Solt.

I don’t know the word he used, but the tone is enough.

“Again,” I say.

They fight again.

“Again.”

Again. Again. Again.

They’re both breathing heavily by the time they break apart the tenth time, but the insolence is gone from Hazen’s eyes. When I order them to do it again, he nods and ducks his head to shove sweat out of his eyes.

But Solt doesn’t lift his sword. His chest is rising and falling rapidly. “We’ve run it enough,” he grinds out.

I stare at him and wait.

He stares back, until the moment shifts, thickening with animosity. We’ve drawn some attention from the closer sparring groups, because many of them have broken apart, watching, sensing the tension between us just like yesterday. Jake has sheathed his weapon, but he’s edged closer like he sees trouble brewing.

I didn’t get along with Jake at first, but it was nothing like this. That was me and him. This is me against an army. An army expected to fight on my behalf. An army full of men and women who might die on my behalf. In their eyes, I’m young and untested, a man from an enemy kingdom allying myself with a girl who took the throne from her sister.

A girl who’s clinging to my hand instead of ordering Solt to be dragged over broken glass or whatever Karis Luran would have thought of.

Solt hasn’t looked away, and the anger in his dark eyes makes me think he might draw his sword on me instead of Hazen. For real instead of a drill.

Solt takes a step forward, and my hand twitches near the hilt of my weapon.

But Hazen taps the flat of his blade against the other man’s greaves. “Captain.” His tone is resigned. Subdued. “Rukt.”

Fight.

Solt mutters under his breath and draws his sword. He’s tired now, so he’s a little slower, his movement more labored. He’s a man who relies on strength instead of speed. For the first time, Hazen puts his heart into the drill. He pushes hard against Solt’s defense, and he’s rewarded with an opening. He disarms the other man, and Solt swears.

“Hazen,” I say. “You’ve earned a rest.”

Hazen is panting, jerking at the buckles of his breastplate. “Thank you.” He hesitates, then gives me a nod. “Your Highness.”