Palm Reading

Azriel was still awake when he heard Gwyn's panting from his cot.

She had fallen asleep about an hour ago, curled up on her side, clutching the sheets to her chest like a replacement for a childhood stuffed animal. She'd tied her straight hair in a ponytail, no doubt prepping for a fight. If another Illyrian brute snuck into the house in the dead of night, she wanted to be ready to defend herself, and she'd have a better chance without a sheet of auburn falling into her eyes.

It had come in handy a week ago, when she'd managed to pin down some male who'd broken into the kitchen. One minute Azriel had heard the bangs and grunts of combat, catapulting him from his room, and the next he'd walked in on Gwyn. The Valkyrie already changed into her teal pajama set and fuzzy socks, straddling the struggling intruder, one dagger pressed to his throat and another pinned against his right wing.

"You're a bitch," he'd spat in her face.

"No," she'd responded. Nearly a whisper, her mouth a mere centimeters from his ear. "I am the rock against which the surf crashes."

The male's reddening face had contorted. "What the fuck does that mean?"

Gwyn had then shoved the sharp tip of her dagger into his wing in answer. "It means I've been used by your kind before, so next time I won't hesitate to plunge this knife deeper into your precious wings if you try to hurt me again. Do you understand?"

The Illyrian had hurled more expletives at the priestess, but she didn't seem to care as Azriel swooped in and yanked him up by his hair. And when the Shadowsinger had returned to the house after making threats of his own and throwing the male headfirst into a pile of mud, Gwyneth Berdara was simply humming with a hot mug of tea in her hands like nothing had even happened.

The Spymaster had never felt so proud.

Still, he'd made a promise to Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn when he'd offered to protect the Priestess for the two weeks she'd be staying at Devlon's camp. After visiting Emerie's shop one day, Gwyn had been hounded by male customer, claiming her Blood Rite victory had been a fluke and that the red-headed beauty wouldn't survive two weeks training with the Illyrians. Emerie had told her friend to ignore him, but Azriel hadn't been surprised when he'd heard that Gwyn, ever the competitor, had taken the tease as a challenge.

And the Shadowsinger hadn't hesitated to offer his protection, as she not only trained but slept in Rhy's house at Windhaven.

So far the Valkyrie had held her own, but Azriel would be lying if he didn't admit his heart stopped nearly every time a sparring had left Gwyn laid out in the dirt. Still, she completed every obstacle thrown at her, landing several blows to Illyrians' faces (and egos) in the process.

Azriel knew he shouldn't have been surprised. He'd told Cassian once that they'd taught the females well, and he believed it.

But watching her those long days, shooting arrows into bullseyes and swordfighting against males twice her size, Azriel couldn't help but notice something in Gwyn that he couldn't teach her. He didn't know if it was her spirit? The way her eyes twinkled as she sized up her opponents. The way her brows furrowed as she watched others closely, soaking up whatever techniques she could as they punched and kicked each other across the ring. Or the way each taunt, each sexist, callous insult seemed to fuel her, like she stashed each comment somewhere hidden deep inside and burned them as energy when the muggy air got too hot and the exercises strained her too much. Azriel would see her limbs tire, observe as she took a few Valkyrie breaths, and then emerge from her meditation faster and stronger than ever, her hair gleaming, her sweat glistening, like she reveled in the challenge.

It was a sight that made his shadows swirl and bounce like her own personal cheering section, and even though he silently pleaded with them to calm down, he couldn't contain their excitement.