Everyone in the barn held silent. Not a gasp, not a cry of concern. Just dozens of eyes watching Mather and Philip and the wooden sword wobbling vertically in the barn’s floor.
Philip’s eyes wandered down Mather’s sword, to the crack in the floor, and back.
“So.” His lips relaxed in a smile. “This means I lost, right?”
Mather spit out a laugh. The sound released the tension, and a few of the men waiting in line chuckled as Mather helped Philip to his feet.
But Philip’s eyes flicked over Mather’s shoulder and the laughter died, an absence of sound that ignited all of Mather’s senses.
He only had time to grab his sword out of the floor before William swung down on him. Mather slid to his knees, caught the blow, and danced around until he righted himself. William spun his blade and dove again.
Around them, Winterian voices rose in encouragement, Winterian cheers filled the air, so wondrously different from the life Mather had been living months ago that it saturated his every muscle, easing realizations into his mind.
If they’re all happy, maybe ignoring the past is worth it.
Mather threw every bit of his frustration into the fight, letting the cheers dissolve beneath his sudden need to beat William. He sucked the cold air into his lungs. Winter’s air. The kingdom he had been supposed to lead, protect, defend.
And it was all on Meira’s shoulders now.
He didn’t want to need her. But loving her was easy, something that had developed over time, like sword fighting or archery—a skill he had picked up methodically until one day he did it without thought. Needing a family, though? He would never in a thousand winters need it.
He would never be able to forgive William for letting him think he was an orphan.
Mather jerked to a halt. William’s blade continued through the air and slammed into his shoulder, knocking him flat on his stomach. Mather glowered and sprang up, sword thudding somewhere behind him as he propelled himself at William. His shoulder connected with William’s stomach, sending both of them down in a tangled pile of grunts and limbs and punches. It didn’t last long—in a few firm twists, William had Mather’s arms knotted behind his back, Mather’s cheek memorizing the feel of the rough wooden floor.
William bent down, his mouth to Mather’s ear. “It doesn’t matter if they fail a hundred times,” he said, barely panting. “All that matters is that we’re here. This is our future.”
Mather grunted, sucking down dusty air. “Yes, Sir.”
He knew William hated when Meira called him that, not that William would ever tell her to stop. Mather just wanted to see unease in him, so he knew that he wasn’t the only one feeling it.
William’s grip on him tensed, a reflex that said he had heard Mather. He held him on the ground for a beat before stepping back, and when Mather burst to his feet, hands clenched, he couldn’t bring himself to face the group of now-speechless Winterians.
“That’s enough for today,” William told everyone as though nothing had happened.
Mather whirled for the door first. William caught his arm in a tight grip, yanking him to a halt as everyone behind them moved to put away the practice swords. “We brought a new shipment of goods. Sort them, and be at the ceremony tonight.”
Orders. More jewels for him to sort through, counting out piles of payment to a kingdom that would demand even more. He didn’t know why Noam insisted on storing the goods here and playing through a ceremony instead of shipping everything to Bithai. Maybe he wanted to taunt the Winterians even more, force Meira to hand each jewel to him, one by one.
Mather shot William a curt nod and hung back once he realized William too, intended to head out. Returning to Meira and Noam, no doubt.
Mather lingered until the barn emptied, and only then did he let himself fly out the door. So distracted was he that he didn’t notice the figure standing just outside until he slammed into it, shoulder stinging from where it connected with armor.
“Watch your—” he started, a mouthful of curses ready. Careless Cordellan scum—
But it wasn’t just any Cordellan. It was Captain Brennan Crewe, the man Noam had put in charge of the soldiers stationed in Jannuari. Number two on the list of Cordellans Mather hated, behind both Theron and Noam, who tied for first.
Mather spun away, stomping off before he could register any reaction on Brennan’s face. He’d only gotten a few paces when he heard snow crunch, footsteps that trotted after him.
“Hold a moment!” Brennan called. “How goes the training? By your scowl, I can tell it’s going as well as I’d expected. My king still wonders why you bother training an army, when you have all the protection you would ever need from Cordell.”
Mather stopped, boots shredding holes in the snow. The training barn stood to the east of the palace, connected by an expanse of snow and a disheveled path that covered with flakes faster than anyone could clean it. But they were alone, no soldiers pacing by in their patrol. And after his interaction with William, Mather didn’t have the strength to keep his mouth shut.
“It’s going well enough that you should tell your king not to get too comfortable here,” he spit as he pivoted around.
Brennan’s eyebrows rose. “You forget your place, Lord Mather.”
Mather bristled but ground his jaw to steady himself. Being dropped from king to lord didn’t bother him, not really—what bothered him was who had all his responsibilities on her shoulders now.