A blade cut through the air, forcing Esme back. It clashed with hers, the impact vibrating down her already shaking arm. She couldn’t lose any more ground. Fragments of her training filtered through her mind. But Cahir fought differently than Killian. More likely, Killian never gave her his all when they sparred.

Esme gritted her teeth and tried to push Cahir back. He leveraged his formidable weight against her, sliding his blade down the length of hers.

Her breathing shallowed, and she barely had the strength to deflect his attacks.

When he pulled back, Esme lunged, thrusting her sword.

Cahir only smiled. His crystal blue eyes shimmered with delight as he pivoted easily out of range.

He advanced again, casually brushing his flaxen hair from his face.

Esme’s energy was almost depleted, and Tearlach’s advice of running and hiding no longer seemed like an insult to her fighting ability but a rather sound idea. Though, even if she could manage to outrun her guard, there was nowhere to hide.

Not for the first time, Esme fought the urge to call on her storm magic. But Cahir had never witnessed her magic—nor had the other warriors in the yard—and she planned to keep it that way, no matter how tempting it was to unleash crushing winds, battering rains, and bolts of pure crackling light. She was too physically exhausted to summon that kind of power anyway. Conjuring a single drop of rain might very well fell her before she could gather a decent storm cloud.

Cahir’s blade forced her back again, and Esme retreated toward the edge of the ring. When she felt the catch of grassy turf behind her heel, she knew the tree line wasn’t far.

Her sword locked with Cahir’s. She tightened her jaw, funneling all her strength into her arm. Sweat prickled at her hairline, and the loose strands at her temples clung to her skin. Her muscles trembled in protest, but she braced her hand against her forearm and managed to shove their crossed blades aside. Grinding the dirt beneath her boots, she bolted for the barrier of trees.

Esme gulped down a desperate breath and glanced over her shoulder, narrowly avoiding the silver arc aimed at the unprotected space between her shoulder and neck. As the breeze of the blade’s path grazed her heated skin, she angled her sword low, slicing at Cahir’s muscular thigh. He sidestepped, causing it to strike the armored plate strapped around his shin. She took the marginal advantage and followed the momentum, spinning back around, her blade aimed high.

But Cahir was gone.

She sucked in a breath. Keeping her weapon raised above her head, her eyes darted from tree to tree, searching for a flicker of movement against the rough bark. Within the bark.

An arm took shape, unblending from the tree. Then a blade—shifting from the natural texture of the bark into cold, hard metal.

His arm lassoed her.

Esme bucked against him as her back connected with his torso. He formed a vise with his unyielding forearm and chest plate. Esme fought to take a breath against the building pressure. Her left arm was pinned at her side, but her sword arm was free. She grappled with her hold on it, struggling to keep it out of Cahir’s reach.

The distraction was enough. She lifted her foot and stomped down hard on his instep.

With a grunt, Cahir loosened his grip. It was only a split second, but it was enough. Tucking her head, she rolled out of his reach. The moment her feet were under her, she ran for the center of the ring.

Anticipating Cahir’s imminent pursuit, she spun around to parry. But her blade hissed through empty air.

Cahir hadn’t moved. He stood watching from the grassy edge, the corner of his mouth twisting up into a wicked smirk.

Shit.

A rumble emerged from the ground, vibrating through the thick soles of her boots.

Feeling cracks spiderweb beneath her, Esme ran. As futile as it was, she broke to the right. Then left.

The cracks followed, biting at her heels, dirt sifting through the widening fissures.

“Cahir!” Tearlach shouted.

Esme knew he’d already siphoned the magic from her opponent, but it was too late.

The ground opened.

Esme’s arms shot out, her sword sailing through a cloud of dust.

Her chest slammed into the jagged edge of a yawning abyss, forcing the air from her lungs. Her nails dug into the loose dirt as she clawed for a handhold. Her foot found purchase for only a second before that, too, crumbled away.

Hold on! Tearlach’s booming voice thundered through her head. Pounding footfalls followed.

Her heartbeat hammered in her ears, drowning out the sounds from above. She was losing her grip. Her legs swung uselessly. But through the din, she felt a familiar sensation slithering toward her.

Just as her hold gave way, a thick root shot out, coiling instantly around her outstretched arm.

She fell only a foot before the vine jerked her to a stop. Pain streaked up her arm.

“She’s fine,” Cahir scoffed with far too much confidence.

Esme looked up as he peered over the edge. Powder-fine mica glittered in the rays of sunlight. She breathed in the smell of cool soil and damp clay, then spat the grit from her mouth.

“Get her out. Now!” Tearlach barked from somewhere beyond the edge of the giant pit. She didn’t need to see his face to know he was giving Cahir a murderous look.

The root drew back, gliding soundlessly into the severed earth as it lifted her closer to the surface. Cahir reached down to grab her other hand, then hauled her up. The movement sent a cascade of pain through her as she became acutely aware of her many injuries.

“You okay?” he whispered as he set her gently on her feet.

Esme winced, rotating her shoulder. She surveyed the rest of her body, but felt only dull, throbbing pain.

“I’m okay,” she croaked, wiping her face on the sleeve of her equally dirty linen shirt. “That was…something.”

He gave her a cocky grin. When Cahir had first joined the royal guard, Esme had been told that his particular variant of earth magic tended toward the dramatic. But even hearing the unbelievable stories about him breaking the ground apart, she hadn’t truly believed.

“Cahir,” Tearlach growled. They both turned.

She’d been right about the look on Tearlach’s face. It also appeared they’d drawn an audience.

“I’d better…” He angled his head toward Esme’s overbearing personal guard. At Cahir’s silent command, the ground stitched back together.

Esme allowed herself a few steadying breaths, then tentatively stretched her arms overhead. Not too bad, she decided. With a roll of her neck, she went in search of her discarded sword. It lay several feet away. Luckily, she’d had the soundness of mind to toss it, or it would’ve been nothing more than a lost relic, trapped inside the ground.

She brushed the dirt from her clothes, vaguely aware of Tearlach voicing his disapproval of Cahir’s fighting methods, and knowing full well she’d be on the receiving end next.

Deciding not to wait, she found her guards and made for the palace.

***

“Oh my,” Cadwyn murmured when Esme walked into the room, her eyes going wide at her charge’s bedraggled appearance and the dirt she tracked in.

Esme swung her armor from her shoulder, but Cadwyn sprang forward, catching the items before they could hit the floor.

“Wait.” She held up a hand, forbidding Esme from stepping anywhere near the plush, white carpet, then pulled over a chair.

Esme dropped down gracelessly to remove her boots. She flexed her bare feet and rubbed the tight muscles above her ankles. As soon as she rose, Cadwyn took her by the shoulders and aimed her toward the bathing chamber.

“I’m going. I’m going.” Esme laughed. “No need to push.”

Though Cadwyn had once been her lady-in-waiting—and Esme selfishly assumed she’d retain the title—Cadwyn had taken it upon herself to serve as her maid as well. And Esme knew full well how much more committed her friend’s attentions could have been. It’d taken serious convincing before Cadwyn had agreed to occupy her old room, rather than sleeping beside Esme’s bed each night. And while Cadwyn’s presence was preferable to the nightmares that kept Esme from sleep most nights, she refused to add that burden to the many Cadwyn already carried.

Esme stepped down into the steamy, rose-scented water. Only it wasn’t rose, she realized after soaking for several minutes. It was something floral and familiar, yet not. Slightly mossy, with the sweetness of a peach. It’d probably been grown in a hothouse at the hand of an artisan, blended with some exotic bloom she’d never heard of—not for its beauty, but for the unique oil it produced.

She breathed deeply and tried to enjoy the alluring aroma, but it only made her miss her garden in Debarrow all the more. Cadwyn’s voice drifted in before her longing could turn to sadness, reminding her that she was to meet with Jaime later that afternoon.

Esme didn’t need reminding. Meeting with Orianna’s sister wasn’t something she’d forget.