A Court of Kingdoms and Ash: An ACOTAR and TOG Crossover

Wendlyn

"Good," Gavriel said, breathing hard in-between their exercises. They'd been practicing formations—a stab, parry, feint, slash, repeat—and every so often, Gavriel would change up his attack. He was testing her, Elide knew—getting a sense for her reflexes.

"You learn quickly enough, Elide. Your challenge will be getting your body fit for this—learning to move without leaving your ankle a burden or weakness, getting strong enough to hold a proper swords for hours at a time, letting the drills sink in so thoroughly that they become instinct."

Sweat slid down Elide's back, her shirt soaked through with it. She nodded, leaning against her wooden sword, its tip pointed into the slats on the deck—then lifted it abruptly and sheepishly, remembering that it wasn't proper form and certainly wasn't good for the blade. Gavriel chuckled.

Elide had grown very fond of the male as they sailed across the Great Ocean. He was kind, and good, and so loyal—and he had been Elide's closest companion during these weeks. Rowan was often silent or combative, and Elide avoided even looking at Lorcan, so Gavriel had become like a brother to her. He even occasionally called her mirra—a word from the old language, meaning little sister.

"Learn to use your weaknesses to your own advantage. Allow them to underestimate you—be clumsy, slow. Let your attacker become arrogant. Then, when the least expect it..." Gavriel grinned. Elide returned it, though she was breathless.

"I strike." Of course—that was what Elide has always done. Playing the weakling was how she'd survived as long as she had.

Gavriel was right. If Elide were smart about this, she could take down moderate threats despite her lack of strength and training. She wasn't useless or vulnerable or weak.

She spotted Lorcan out of the corner of her eye, leaning against the foremast. He'd been watching them train nonstop, barely blinking, his gaze focused wholly on her—and she knew that if Gavriel were to hurt her in any way, Lorcan wouldn't hesitate to intervene.

She flushed under his piercing gaze, wishing she wouldn't. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous, thinking he could win her back by sulking around and playing the territorial fae bastard. Lorcan had not even attempted to speak with her after that first night at the inn...

Elide shoved the memory out of her mind and lifted her sword, her back and arm aching at the effort.

"Let's go again. Don't go easy on me."

◌ ◌ ◌

Another day passed without much consequence. Elide had worked herself so hard the day before on the boat's decks that she could barely lift her arms. She was sore everywhere—even in places she didn't think could ache.

The sun had burnt her nose and the high points of her cheeks over these weeks at sea, tanning her usually pale skin a shade or two, and bringing streaks of gold into her dark hair. There were even little freckles on her skin. She loved them.

After years locked away, this journey was a sort of divine luxury. She had grown to crave the scent of the sea and wind in her hair as they sailed, and had even become confident enough to climb over the ship's rail and lounge on the netting below its bowsprit, where she could look down and see the water as it roiled and foamed beneath her.

It was where she lay now, eyes closed, in the shade of the sails. She let her mind wander... and it traced itself inevitably towards Aelin. Elide opened her eyes, her peace lost, mouth tightening with anger and anxiety. Aelin was wholly at Maeve's mercy, locked inside that box.