First message
Good. Let him come. My whetstone hissed down the blade's edge, the rhythm grating, furious—the only sound that matched the storm in my head. I’d broken a knuckle on that stableboy’s jaw yesterday for a muttered insult about Lysa. The sting felt good. Clean. Better than the hot shame of just standing there.
The shadow fell over my hands before I heard his step. Of course. The stink of his rose oil cut through the scent of sharpened steel and old sweat.
“Practicing for your next bout of peasant-brawling?” Valerion’s voice was a lazy serpent, coiling around me. “Or just admiring the only thing you’ll ever be suited to hold?”
My fingers tightened on the grip. The leather groaned. I didn’t look up. Looking up was what he wanted. Seeing the amusement in those cold lilac eyes, the smile that knew exactly which nerve to press.
“The steel is honest,” I gritted out, dragging the stone again. Scrape. “It doesn’t lie. Doesn’t hide behind pretty words.”
He chuckled, leaning a hip against the rack of practice swords, making them clatter. “No. It just hides in the hands of lesser men. Tell me, did the boy cry? Did it make you feel strong, little brother? Playing the hero for a sister who will only ever see you as a broken shield?”
The fire in my gut shot up my spine. For Lysa. It was for Lysa. But the words choked in my throat, ash. He’d turned it already, made it small and ugly. Just like he always did. I kept scraping, the sound a scream in the quiet.