Celestia's POV
Someone's shaking me awake.
Get up.
I groan and try to roll over. Every muscle in my body screams in protest. Running through the forest last night, fighting, climbing—everything hurts.
I said get up. Thorne's voice is merciless.
It's still dark, I mumble, pulling the blanket over my head.
The blanket is ripped away. Cold air hits me like a slap.
Dawn is in ten minutes. Training starts now.
I force my eyes open. Thorne stands over me, already dressed, looking infuriatingly alert. Through the window of the safe house, I can see the sky just starting to lighten.
Training? My brain feels like mud. We just escaped an army. We have bounties on our heads. Shouldn't we be planning or hiding or
You want to fight a war? He tosses something at me. Rough cloth—training clothes. Then you need to survive one first. Get dressed. You have five minutes.
He walks out, leaving me shivering on the floor.
I want to scream at him. Want to tell him I'm exhausted and terrified and not ready for this.
But I get dressed anyway.
The training yard is just a clearing behind the safe house. Bare dirt, a few wooden posts, some practice weapons leaning against a shed.
Thorne is waiting, holding two wooden swords.
Here. He tosses one to me.
I barely catch it. The wood is heavy and awkward in my hands.
I don't know how to use a sword, I say.
I know. He raises his practice blade. That's why we're training.
Shouldn't you teach me first? Show me how to—
He swings at me.
I yelp and stumble backward, almost dropping my weapon.
What are you doing?
Teaching you. He swings again.
I manage to raise my sword this time. The impact jars my arms so hard I almost drop it.
Your enemies won't wait for you to be ready, Thorne says, circling me. They won't give you time to think. They'll just attack.
He proves it by sweeping my legs out from under me.
I hit the ground hard. Pain explodes through my back.
Get up.
I struggle to my feet, fury replacing shock. You could have warned me!
Why? So you could prepare? He shakes his head. Next time someone tries to kill you, they won't warn you either. Now defend yourself.
He attacks again.
This time I'm ready—or I think I am. I try to block like I saw him do, but his blade smashes through my guard and hits my ribs.
Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to hurt.
A lot.
Pathetic. His voice is cold. Again.
Hours pass.
The sun rises. Sweat soaks through my clothes. Bruises bloom across my arms, my legs, my ribs.
I hit the ground so many times I lose count.
And every single time, Thorne stands over me with the same command: Get up.
I can't, I gasp after what must be the hundredth fall. My whole body is shaking. I can't anymore.
Yes, you can.
No! Tears of pain and frustration burn my eyes. I'm not a warrior! I'm not built for this!
Then you'll die. His voice is brutally matter-of-fact. Is that what you want? To die because training was too hard?
I want you to stop beating me into the dirt like I'm—
He swings again.
Rage explodes through me, burning away the exhaustion. I don't try to block this time. Instead, I dodge and swing back at him as hard as I can.
My wooden blade connects with his shoulder.
He actually stumbles.
For one heartbeat, we both freeze.
Then his smile is sharp and approving. Good. Again.
Something shifts inside me. The fear and pain transform into pure determination.
I attack.
He blocks easily, but I don't stop. I swing again. And again. Putting all my anger into each strike. Anger at my father. At Adrian. At Isabella. At Marcus. At every person who betrayed me.
At Thorne for making me feel weak.
My blade crashes against his over and over. I'm not skilled. Not graceful. But I'm furious.
And fury has its own power.
Better, Thorne says, actually working now to block me. Much better. Use that rage. Channel it.
I swing at his head. He ducks and sweeps my legs again.
I hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from my lungs.
But this time, I roll and come up swinging.
His eyes flash with something—surprise? Pride?
Where did that come from? he asks.
You want me to survive? I gasp, raising my sword again. Then stop treating me like I'm fragile. I'm not. Not anymore.
For the first time all morning, he lowers his blade.
No, he agrees quietly. You're not.
By the time the sun reaches its peak, I can barely stand.
My arms feel like dead weight. My legs wobble with every step. Fresh bruises cover bruises from earlier.
But I'm still on my feet.
Thorne finally calls a halt. Enough. Rest.
I collapse where I stand, not caring that I'm sitting in dirt.
He hands me a water skin. I drink greedily, water spilling down my chin.
You did well, he says.
I got knocked down a hundred times.
And got up a hundred times. He sits beside me, and I notice he's barely breathing hard. That's what matters.
I want to hate him for being so calm while I'm destroyed. But I can't quite manage it.
Why are you doing this? I ask. Really?
Because I need you alive. He looks at me, and for once his expression is open. Honest. And because I've seen what happens to people who go into war unprepared. I won't let that be you.
Something warm unfurls in my chest despite the pain.
I hate you, I say, but there's no real venom in it.
His smile is slight. Good. Anger keeps you alive.
Is that your answer to everything?
It's kept me alive for fourteen years as the Crown's Executioner. He stands, offering his hand. It'll keep you alive too.
I take his hand and let him pull me up. Every muscle protests.
Can you walk? he asks.
Barely.
Then tomorrow will be worse.
I groan. There's a tomorrow?
Every day until you can defend yourself properly. He picks up the practice swords. We train at dawn, every morning, until you're ready.
Ready for what?
For war. His dark eyes hold mine. Because ready or not, it's coming.
That night, after a sparse dinner and more water, I collapse onto my bedroll.
Sleep takes me instantly.
I dream of fighting. Of blood. Of my father's cold eyes watching me die.
I wake to darkness and silence.
Something's wrong.
I lie perfectly still, listening.
There—a sound outside. Soft footsteps circling the safe house.
My heart pounds. I reach for the dagger Thorne gave me, clutching it under my blanket.
The footsteps stop at the window near my bedroll.
A shadow passes across the moonlight.
Someone's watching me through the glass.
I barely breathe, pretending to sleep, my hand tight on the dagger.
After what feels like forever, the shadow moves away.
The footsteps retreat into the forest.
I wait five minutes, then slip out of bed and creep to Thorne's room.
Thorne, I whisper, shaking his shoulder.
He's awake instantly, blade in hand. What?
Someone was outside. Watching through my window.
His expression goes deadly. How long ago?
Just now. They left toward the forest.
He's up and moving before I finish speaking, checking the door, the windows, securing the house.
Could you see who it was? he asks.
No. Just a shadow.
He curses under his breath. This location is compromised. We leave at first light.
But you said it was secret. That even Marcus didn't know—
Someone knows now. His jaw is tight with tension. Either they followed us, or...
Or what?
He doesn't answer. Just stares out the window into the dark forest.
Thorne?
Get some sleep, he says finally. I'll keep watch.
But I see the concern in his eyes. The worry he's trying to hide.
Someone found us.
And whoever it is, they're watching. Waiting.
In the forest, hidden among the trees, the figure from the window pulls out a small mirror—the kind used for long-distance communication magic.
The surface shimmers, and a face appears. Male. Aristocratic. Cold.
Report, the face demands.
The Executioner is training the girl, the watcher says quietly. She's improving faster than expected.
Does she suspect?
Not yet. Blackwell trusts me completely.
Good. Continue surveillance. When the time is right, you'll eliminate them both.
And the bounty?
The face in the mirror smiles—a cruel, calculating expression.
Consider it a bonus. But remember: the girl must suffer before she dies. Her father insists on it.
The watcher nods. Understood, my lord.
The mirror goes dark.
The figure melts back into the shadows, watching the safe house where Celestia and Thorne sleep.
Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
And inside, neither of them realizes that the greatest danger isn't the bounty hunters they're running from.
It's the spy who's been with them all along.