You have an important day ahead of you, Captain ó Faoláin. Don't make any mistakes."

"Of course, Commander." Ronan nodded, moving past how odd the title sounded before his name.

Captain. It was a role he had held only for a day, after the sudden death of Grúgán, the previous captain of Prince Domhnall's guard.

The initial pride he had felt upon receiving the honor had faded overnight, all too quickly, and dulled into something heavy and unfamiliar.

He wasn't sure what to do with the heft of it, but he would learn.

For nine years, he had been walking down this path; all he knew was how to keep moving forward.

He couldn't fault Commander Derval for her concern.

It was early to trust such a new captain with the prince's safety outside of Scáilca, especially with the recent rise in Ionróiran raids.

The seafaring invaders were brutal and unrelenting in their attacks.

But Ronan had spent years training, was well acquainted with the prince, and, above all, he understood what it meant to bear the responsibility of keeping people safe.

Protection was second nature to him. It had to be.

However, there was another reason they'd chosen him, one that followed him everywhere he went: Who better to trust than the young boy in whom General Kordislaen, the famed Sword of Scáilca, had seen promise?

Ronan had been placed in the castle at the age of ten and trained by the best warriors in Inismian.

They knew he was the logical choice.

And he would prove to everyone that he was worthy of the chances he had been given.

As Derval left the dusty stable, Prince Domhnall came to stand beside Ronan's horse. Despite Ronan telling him to dress for travel, the prince's blue jacket looked freshly pressed, and his trousers were clearly new. Thankfully the prince had at least remembered to leave his crown in his bags.

"You heard her, Ronan: don't mess it up. I would hate to have to demote you." Domhnall shook his pale blond hair out of his eyes, not bothering to hide his grin.

The corner of Ronan's mouth lifted against his better judgment. He turned toward the saddle he was tightening. "And lose my ability to boss you around? I'd never let that happen."

Only Domhnall joked with him like this. When Ronan first met him, they were both just boys.

Domhnall, a prince eager to play at war but surrounded by those too afraid of the ire of the king to teach him.

Ronan, sent by Kordislaen to receive training, while whispers claimed he was blessed by the war god Ríoghain.

No one would approach them, and in each other they found a mirror of loneliness and ambition.

Their alliance was forged by the steel of their blades and the weight of their goals.

When Ronan looked at Domhnall, he didn't see a future king or a royal too fragile to challenge.

He saw someone determined to better himself and his kingdom.

And the prince knew it wasn't a god's will that gave Ronan his skills in battle.

No, it was the dedication and hours of training, of fighting and falling and pushing past pain and doubt and the memories that followed him like ever-present shadows.

Ronan mounted his horse, ignoring the familiar jolt of pain in his ankles as he placed his feet in the stirrups. "Get in your carriage. We want to be in álainndore before nightfall."

Domhnall waved him off. "Fine, if you insist."

As Ronan watched the prince swing up into the waiting carriage, he tested his ankles again.

He bit his lip as a burning sensation flared, but he knew it wouldn't go away anytime soon.

The pain had been with him for nearly a decade.

So, he straightened in the saddle and moved forward, as he always did.

***

THE SOUTHERN SCáILCAN COUNTRYSIDE WAS ALL VAST FARMS and dense copses of trees cascading over hills into the occasional murky lake.

If they traveled farther south, into Liricnoc, the forests would thin and the lakes would vanish, but they remained traveling eastward, to álainndore.

It took a day until they saw the first sign of the border, the green crest of the Hill of Tiarnas peeking over the horizon.

Stones stood in a circle at the summit, and a sliver of the cold gray coronation stone was barely visible in the middle.

This was the center of Inismian, where the three neighboring kingdoms of Scáilca, álainndore, and Liricnoc met.

It was the place where the gods first stepped foot on the land.

Generations of monarchs had traveled from all over the continent to be crowned here.

One day, Domhnall would kneel before the gods, as his ancestors had before him, and perhaps Ronan would be standing behind him then too. His friend, his shadow.

Ronan's chest tightened strangely, and he pushed the thought away. His future would be what it would be. It was the present that needed his attention.

The air around him hummed with tension. Ronan couldn't tell if it was the magic of the place or his own anxieties that made it so. He was all too aware of the commander's warnings of potential threats.

The growing shadows of the forest enveloped them as they rode, chasing the retreating sun. The last wisps of fading light flowed through the treetops, catching on branches and moss. After a few moments, he couldn't see the entrance they had traveled through.

He knew if they continued down the dirt road, it would lead them through the forest and eventually to a clearing at the base of the hill. But the trees whispered. Their branches knocked against each other in the summer wind, leaves rustling. And Ronan knew they were not alone.

He stopped his horse, causing the warrior behind him to shoot him a confused look, but Ronan held his position. The other guards followed his lead, slowing to a halt. Ronan's hand began to shift toward his bow, subtly undoing the clasps holding it to the saddle, as his eyes scanned the brush.

If he was wrong, Commander Derval would not be forgiving. He could see her looking back with irritated expectation. He could hear her voice in his head. No mistakes, ó Faoláin.

There was a crack to his left. A branch breaking under someone's foot. His mind raced through the possibilities.

It could simply be another traveler, posing them no threat.

It could be bandits looking for a quick way to earn some screppals. They'd see the number of warriors and likely be too intimidated to attack. It'd be best to keep moving, then.

It could be one of the sidhe, the creatures that roamed the forests and plains of Inismian. Thankfully, he could rule out most of the more dangerous beasts, as the threat wasn't coming from the skies. Moving on quickly would still be their best option.

It could be what people had been whispering about in the markets and taverns. Tinelann warriors, breaking the treaty that had maintained peace between kingdoms for so long.

Or—

Before anyone could blink, Ronan was in motion.

He reached for his quiver, nocked an arrow, and let it fly into the trees.

With a dull thud, a body fell forward from the bushes, sprawled in front of them.

From the markings on the man's leather armor, Ronan knew he was right.

The man was Ionróiran, one of the soldiers from the continent across the sea, Mhór Roinn, looking to weaken Scáilca and gain a foothold in Inismian.

There was a moment of silence, and then, with a roar, nearly two dozen men emerged from the woods, attacking on all sides, outnumbering the prince's guard. But Ronan's shot had put the caravan on alert. They were ready.

An axe flew toward Ronan's head, its wielder grabbing a dagger from his belt and charging at him from the ground.

Ronan ducked toward his horse's neck and pulled out his sword.

He could see the Ionróiran going for the animal to even the fight, but Ronan used the flat of his blade to quickly deflect the strike.

As the man prepared his next blow, Ronan sliced his neck, a swift, deep strike that killed him instantly.

Another man took his place, and the fight began anew.

The sight of two Ionróiran men heading straight for the prince's carriage broke him out of the routine of combat. The warriors nearby were engaged in fierce battle, leaving the prince alone and vulnerable.

Ronan leaped from his horse and ran, dodging between swinging blades and flying axes.

He made it to the carriage just as the first man opened the door.

Over the top of his head, Ronan saw Prince Domhnall ready, steel glinting in his hands.

Then Ronan grabbed the Ionróiran by his leather armor and launched both of them backward.

They tumbled, and sharp pain stung Ronan's cheek as the gravel and dirt from the road abraded his skin. His eye burned as blood—his own, possibly from one of the earlier duels—dripped from his forehead. His sword fell as they rolled, but still, Ronan ended up on top.

With one hand pinning down the Ionróiran at his neck, he reached with his other for the dagger that he kept strapped to his chest.

The man fought for his life, flipping them around, but the momentum only helped Ronan plunge the dagger into his heart. The Ionróiran's body fell stiffly onto him, the sudden pressure a relief and a crushing ache.

Pushing the body off, Ronan hurriedly turned back to the carriage and the prince, only to see the second Ionróiran dead on the ground in front of him.

"Are you okay?" Ronan glanced at Domhnall.

The prince's dark eyes were wide. Crimson blood had spattered the inside of the opulent carriage, bold against the striking gold and the prince's pale complexion. But it wasn't only shock on the prince's face. There was a degree of thrill. Of exhilaration.

"I'm fine. The other warriors?" Domhnall's voice was calm despite the rage of battle surrounding him.