The Tinelann troops never returned. For two days, Clía and the others waited, searching for any sign of another attack.

There were none.

Which left them to focus on rebuilding.

The southern wall had fallen in the tunnel collapse, and there was significant damage to the grounds around it.

The castle itself had withstood the battle, but the scars would sit in the stone for centuries to come.

The underground passages had to be reinforced—a dangerous and physically demanding job.

Niamh and Kían were first to volunteer. Clía knew Ronan had wanted to help, but with his injured arm, he held back.

He had even taken to sleeping a little longer in the mornings, and she noticed he grimaced less when he walked.

He assisted Griffin in strategy meetings and overseeing patrols. Clía and Domhnall were invited to those meetings as voices representing their kingdoms.

Five days after the battle, when they got word Sárait had returned, Clía allowed herself a break to go see her friend.

Leaving the study, she hurried through the castle, with Ronan following close behind.

“I’ll go find Kían!” Domhnall called after them.

Sárait stood in the main entrance. She looked no different than before. Her hair hung long and soft, sticking out from underneath her wool cap. Her face was flushed from the frozen air, but the smile that overtook it when she saw Clía was warmer than the summer sun.

Clía didn’t stop and ran right at her until she could pull Sárait into her arms. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

“I know, my absence left a hole in your life you could never fill.” Sárait laughed.

Clía felt her eyes burning at the sound.

For too long, there had been a shroud of darkness over the castle.

Having Sárait awake, there, and laughing?

It was like that first breath of air after being crushed by wave after wave.

“I really missed you,” Clía whispered into her hair.

“I missed you too.”

Another set of footsteps caused Sárait to pull away from her.

Sárait sucked in a breath as she saw Kían. A thin layer of dust covered their warm brown skin, clinging to their sweat, but Sárait stared at them as if they were covered in glittering diamonds. They moved toward each other at the same time; their embrace was one of lovers long parted.

Clía looked for something—anything—else to focus on. They were owed a private moment. She met Ronan’s gaze, and something in her ached with a longing she had been trying to ignore for days.

She hadn’t talked with him outside of meetings, unsure of what to say.

Spending more time with him, alone, would make their inevitable separation that much more painful, and she couldn’t bear it.

And based on the sorrow she saw behind the yearning in his eyes, the hurt wasn’t hers alone.

Soon, she’d be returning to álainndore, and he would be traveling back to the Scáilcan palace in Suanriogh.

But she kept finding reasons to stay at Caisleán.

Talking with Domhnall about Scáilca’s plans.

Discussing Tinelann’s potential next steps with their commanders.

Her excuses were running thin, and she couldn’t avoid her duty forever.

Even if the thought of returning home felt more and more like swimming into the open ocean with no raft.

Caisleán’s cold walls had become a different kind of home to her. A place where she had felt happy and built friendships that she never would have in Bailetara. She was tried and tested and had proved herself.

She came here assuming she would go home triumphant—a prince on her arm. But now she was returning with a war as her prize.

A dull ache formed in her head at the thought. This was useless. She would be going back to álainndore, but she didn’t need to taint the time she had left with her friends with doubt and fear.

***

CLíA LOUNGED ON THE OVERSTUFFED COUCH ACROSS FROM the burning fire in the library, exchanging stories with her friends with a half-empty glass of wine in her hand. Ronan sat only a foot away.

“So it was you who killed him.” Kían laughed, their fingers toying with Sárait’s hair.

They were entwined together on the floor, closest to the hearth.

Clía hadn’t seen the two of them separated since Sárait’s return.

Kían’s hand would always be holding Sárait’s, or Sárait’s arm would find itself wrapped around Kían’s waist.

They looked at Clía expectantly. She nodded, not wanting to go into detail.

“Bloodthirsty.” Sárait whistled. “Who would’ve known.”

Clía’s stomach roiled as the words sank in. She kept her mask firmly in place, offering them a smug shrug. Ronan’s hand crept toward hers on the couch before stopping a breath away. Inches turned to miles, and she didn’t know how to cross them.

Niamh sat cross-legged on the table, leaning back on her arms. Her hair tumbled behind her, and her skin glowed gold in the firelight. She opened her eyes, narrowing them on Clía.

“When are you going home?” Niamh said bluntly.

One would think talking about murder would bring about a low mood, but it dropped even further at Niamh’s question. The study was quieter than Clía had ever heard it. “Soon.”

Ronan’s hand, and the magnetic pull it carried, withdrew.

She wanted to reach out. Hold it, hold him.

She needed to tell him that when she closed her eyes, she dreamed she’d be able to stay at the castle.

They would wake up horribly early for grueling training sessions, and laugh in the arena as they worked, with the fading stars as company.

Dinners would be spent complaining about how badly their muscles ached. She would have been happy.

But there was no room for joy in war. Not with everything at stake.

“If you ever need any help, with anything, I’m sure we can arrange a visit,” Niamh offered, sending a pointed look back at Domhnall. He sat on the armchair behind her, the eye not protected by his new eyepatch fixed on something she couldn’t see.

When Niamh turned back, Clía could see a glint of hope and determination in the set of her brows and the slight curve of her mouth.

Clía grinned. “I’d love that.”

***

DOMHNALL PULLED CLíA ASIDE AS EVERYONE WENT OFF TO bed.

She followed him out of the castle walls and onto the southern grounds, where dust from fallen stone covered dead grass.

The wall had been rebuilt rather quickly, but it was changed.

There was a difference in how the stones lay together.

It was uneven and rushed, but it would serve its purpose.

“You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question, but an accusation.

Her eyes narrowed. “You know this.”

When he sighed, it was as tense as his stance. “Vagueness does not become you, Princess Clíodhna.”

“I tire of keeping to etiquette, Prince Domhnall. What are you asking?”

The chill from the winter air had begun to sink through her cloak. She wasn’t the only one affected. Domhnall rubbed his hands together, pink in the cold. “Niamh asked you a question. Earlier. You were vague, and I don’t think it was simply for dramatics.”

“I’m a very dramatic person—haven’t you learned that by now?”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” he said, and she thought she saw the hint of a smile playing at his lips. “However, you typically are also honest. It can be infuriating at times. So, why be deceitful now?” He arched a brow.

Her eyes rolled. “Something tells me you’re going to explain.”

When he finally did smile, it was coy and smart and frustrating.

Clía was suddenly filled with another wave of gratitude that she wouldn’t have to tie her life to his.

“You don’t want them to know. If I were to place my bets, I would say you are leaving tomorrow.

Maybe the next day. If you told them that tonight, there would be waterworks—extended goodbyes that would become too painful. You might even prolong your stay.”

She paused. He wasn’t supposed to be right. “When did you become insightful?”

“I always was. You just never noticed.” The words, meant in jest, pierced her.

There was so much she’d never noticed about him.

Things that would have driven her insane if they had married.

Surprising quirks and qualities she had overlooked when preoccupied with the importance of the marriage and the alliance it brought.

“Your actions, however, struck a familiar chord.” His words settled, and suddenly she realized.

The reason for his last-minute end to their betrothal plans—it wasn’t a callous decision.

It was the result of his own dread. He wanted to put off the moment when he would crush the vision of the future she had held on to for so long.

The awkwardness, pain, and anger that would follow.

He hadn’t acknowledged her until their conversation, and once it was done, he fled immediately so that it wouldn’t drag on.

He had been afraid and reluctant, doubting his decisions as she was now.

“A carriage will arrive for me tomorrow morning. I’ll let everyone know at breakfast before I leave,” she confessed to the shadows.

“Niamh will miss you. I think she likes you more than she likes me.”

The joke was empty, but she recognized the attempt with a laugh. “That doesn’t say much about me.”

“And here I was trying to cheer you up.” The moonlight cast streaks of white in his hair as he shook his head. “Kían and Sárait will especially miss you. Sárait only got you back today, and I’m assuming she’s not leaving with you?”

Part of Clía had wanted Sárait to return with her, at least for a time—but before she could broach the subject, Sárait had casually mentioned that she planned on staying at Caisleán with Kían until she decided where she wanted to go next.

“I thought you were supposed to cheer me up,” Clía muttered.

“My main goal was to talk some sense into you,” he admitted. “I know you’re avoiding Ronan.”

“I’m going back inside.” She didn’t have the energy for this. When she came out here with him, she thought that she could finish repairing the damages the past months had dealt to their friendship. She wasn’t here to be lectured.

As she turned back toward the castle, a hand wrapped around her forearm, stopping her.

“The man loves you.” His voice was quiet but strong. Determined. “And I thought you felt the same. Why are you letting him go? Give me a reason, and if it’s good enough, then fine. I’ll leave you alone.”

The last thing she wanted to do was open the locked trunk of emotions and thoughts in her head.

When she turned back to Domhnall, she had planned to tell him some clever lie. Stop his questions and keep her heart firmly in her chest. But the green of his uncovered eye was soft. Understanding.

And she knew there was nothing she could offer him that would be satisfying. Not to her.

Her whole life, she always tried to be what other people wanted. When had she done something for herself? Why didn’t she deserve a life that was hers?

Ronan could say no, and while that would hurt, wouldn’t it be worse to be left wondering about opportunities missed?

Approval shone in Domhnall’s eye. “That’s what I thought.” It wasn’t smug or condescending. It was gentle and kind and knowing.

“I’ll talk to him in the morning.”

His resulting grin was boyish. “Good. I don’t like to see my friends suffer for no reason. And this means that now we can talk about the other thing I wanted to discuss. It’s more positive. Promise.” He fumbled in his pocket. “I have spoken with Draoi Griffin, and he agreed.”

Domhnall unfurled his hand, revealing a cloak pin. Intricate knots of gold coiled in a halo around a small dagger. The Caisleán Cósta insignia. Despite Kordislaen saying they had earned the title of curadh, they had never been given their own pins.

Her brow furrowed. “Is this . . . mine?”

Domhnall reached forward, brushing her hair out of the way of her current cloak pin. It was simple, something she had picked up in a market a few years ago. He removed it, dropping it into her hand. With that gone, he began pinning the insignia in place.

“Griffin thought it was only fitting you receive it,” he said, securing the dagger. “I think killing the previous chief of Caisleán shows you were trained well.”

She looked down at the pin—a symbol of decades of tradition and skill—and was filled with a warm sense of pride.

For the past few days, when she thought of going home, all she could think of was how different it would be.

She would have to help prepare her kingdom for war, something they hadn’t seen in generations.

And ó Connor was gone. He wouldn’t be around to distract her at banquets or joke with her over a game of fidchell.

It would be strange, and painful, but she’d found a version of herself she never thought possible at Caisleán. Perhaps this new version of home wouldn’t be entirely unbearable.

And maybe Domhnall was right, and she didn’t need to be alone there.

“When you talk to Ronan,” Domhnall added, pulling something else from his pocket, “make sure you give him this.”

It was another pin, identical to hers. The metal was smooth in her hand.

“Do you think the gods watch over us? Or do they think us fools to worship uncaring beings?” Snow had begun to fall again as Domhnall spoke.

Clía thought of Camhaoir. The gem that shone in its hilt. She thought of unanswered prayers and dead bodies on the ground. “I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. I never did,” he whispered.

“Griffin would have my head, speaking blasphemy on sacred ground. But this past week, I found myself thinking it doesn’t matter.

The gods will do as they like. All we can control are our choices.

” He looked down to the pin in her hand. “He deserves something good.”

She stared at the cold metal. When she looked back at Domhnall, his chin was tilted up, his eye on the stars.