Page 52 of The Princess Knight
The pain in his legs kept him from being as nimble as he would have liked, but it didn’t stop him from enjoying himself. When he would stumble into Clía, or miss a step, she would simply laugh it off. And he found himself joining in. Their dance turned into chaos, their movements wild, punctuated by breathless laughter, and he felt something he hadn’t felt in years, not since his mother died—a feeling of belonging. Of home.
Then the song changed, and the music slowed. Ronan felt his arms moving around her before he could stop himself. She didn’t step away, instead leaning into his embrace, hands resting on his shoulders.
“Two dances in a row? Bold of you, Captain.”
He should be letting go. He’d gotten his one dance and kept the smile on her face.
His hands tightened around her waist. “I don’t believe anyone would mind.”
“I haven’t had this much fun dancing in years,” she whispered into his chest.
“Years? Aren’t there countless feasts in Álainndore? I’m sure Domh—the nobles there are far better dancers than I am.” He had caught Domhnall’s name before it slipped out, but the thought was already in his head. Despite their very different lives, Ronan had never been jealous of Domhnall. Until now.
He brushed the feeling away. He had no claim to jealousy, no reason to feel it. Not for dances he should have no interest in.
“Those other dances, those other days, I felt on edge. Watched. It’s not that I hated them—but it was like I was trying to play a role, and everyone else had scripts except for me. I did try tolearn what they wanted from me, and I became more comfortable wearing that mask. Until I got here. Coming here felt like I was starting from scratch.”
He wanted to tell her how sorry he was she ever felt that way. How strong she was for persevering.
He settled on saying, “Whenever you’re here with me, know that there is no role, no script you need to follow. I have no use for them. You need only be yourself, and that’s enough. Anyone who makes you feel otherwise is a waste of your time.”
“Sometimes, I worry I don’t know who that is. Myself.” Her voice faltered slightly.
“You don’t need to. Not right now. You have the rest of your life to figure that out. But if it helps, I can tell you what I’ve seen. In the weeks I’ve known you, you’ve proven yourself to be loyal, clever, stubborn, and brave. You left everything you knew behind, and you continue to challenge yourself. It’s admirable.”
Her hands clenched tighter around his shoulders. Neither of them said anything. As the music faded to silence, they stayed close. Huddled in the study, they swayed together, dancing to music that lingered in the air. And in the quiet, an idea hit Ronan.
“What if I continue training you?” he whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“You said being here was like starting over. What if I can help you? I can teach you how to fight, how to think in battle.” He grinned at his stroke of genius, and definitely not at the idea of working closely with her again. “You know I’m a good teacher. Let me help.”
“I think you have a savior complex,” she retorted, but she was smiling.
“I think you just don’t want to sound needy by agreeing too quickly,” he teased back.
She shook her head. “Would this include waking up before sunrise? Because if so, I refuse.”
He only laughed.
Chapter Seventeen
Ihate you so much.” Ronan smiled as Clía groaned behind him. Between classes and dalta training, the early morning was the only consistent time they could fit in additional training, much to Clía’s dismay.
He handed her a sword from the armory.
“Say that again after you win your first duel.” He expected her complaints, almost welcomed them. Their conversations reminded him of his and Domhnall’s early training sessions in Suanriogh.
He hadn’t sought out Domhnall since Clía told him about the prince’s new engagement—they had never kept secrets from each other before, and he didn’t know what to make of this change in his friend. If Domhnall didn’t want Ronan to know, then he wouldn’t bring it up, with Domhnall or with Clía.
The princess stood before Ronan in the shadows of the early morning, glaring straight into the wind as she attempted to match his position. Knees bent, feet apart, and eyes focused. He gently lifted her fingers from the sword’s hilt and readjusted her grip, so her hand didn’t choke the blade. “Better?”
She nodded.
“During your trial, you chose a two-handed longsword,” heexplained. “They can be hard to manage as a beginner, and that was probably what led to you losing your grip while fighting.”
Clía twirled the sword around, and Ronan stepped back so he didn’t get caught in the arc. “In my defense,” she said, “they’re both sharp blades that can hurt people.”
