The Raven and the Songbird

Chapter 3

Four days.

Four days of training with no sign of Azriel.

Four days of the pitying side-glances from Nesta and Cassian when she arrived to the ring to find that he still wasn't there.

Gwyn gritted her teeth and peppered the post with blows from her fists and feet. She hated pity. She didn't want it. They knew it, too. It was all she could do not to scream at them, and part of her wondered why exactly she hadn't. A few weeks ago she probably would have. Her scowl deepened.

She punched harder.

As much as she'd denied it to the general and her friends, she was acting differently. She wasn't upset about being spurned by a male. She had never had any claim on Azriel, never had any expectations. She was not a female that would allow a male to have power over her emotions – her very being – like that.

But she felt like she had lost a friend, and not due to tragedy or death. She had lost a friend by their own choice. She wasn't sure how to handle that.

Had it been pity that made Azriel placate her? Is that what he had done? She'd told him that she missed him. It was true, and she had never questioned uttering her truth to anyone.

He hadn't returned the sentiment.

Perhaps it had been pity, then. He had said what he knew she wanted to hear, enough to get her out of his hair...

"NO," she scolded herself through her panting. Gwyn would not allow herself to go down that road. She did not need pity from herself, either. She was strong and capable and confident. She was a Valkyrie.

The dull ache in her knuckles distracted her from her rushing thoughts and the sun beating down on the training ring. It was hotter than she could remember it ever being since she'd started training – so hot that Cassian had allowed the trainees to forego the Illyrian leathers in favor of lighter, cooler clothing. A year ago the idea may have terrified her, but she had fought Illyrian warriors in nothing but a nightgown, so she graciously accepted Nesta's offer of the light blue linen tunic that bared her shoulders and lightweight leggings. Gwyn was grateful for her friend's consideration, even though she knew the sun would likely end up burning her rarely-exposed skin.

Another distraction. For the best.

"Gwyn."

The priestess started as the general's voice boomed from behind her. She turned her wide eyes to him and saw an eyebrow raised at her.

"Cassian?" She had grown increasingly comfortable with him in the months since his and Nesta's mating ceremony. She had spent a considerable amount of time with both of them, and while she still used his title, it was usually in jest and banter. He had become a friend, something of a brother, perhaps.

"I said you need to take a break." His eyes shifted to her hands before returning to her face. "Water. Now. And take care of those hands."

"I'm fine -"

"You will take care of them or I will sideline you for the rest of the day, Berdara," he spoke sternly, every bit the weathered veteran and general of the most feared forces in all of Prythian. He had mischief in his eyes, as per usual, but there was something that darkened them.

Concern.

"Yes, general," she drawled before muttering under her breath as he walked away, "Mother-henning busybody."

"What was that, Berdara?" he challenged over a broad shoulder.

"Nothing!" she sing-songed back to him as sweetly as she could muster, lest she not sound convincing. His wings flared slightly as he paced away, and she waited until he was halfway across the ring before she stretched out her arms in front of her to survey the backs of her hands. The fabric wrapped around her hands was stained crimson across her knuckles where her skin had surely cracked open. In multiple places.