The corner of his mouth turned up. “You shelved my books in alphabetical order, which I doubt was the state in which you found them.”
There was nothing to be gained or lost in denying it, so she nodded. “Incompetence irritates me, particularly my own. I hoped the books would help rectify my limitations.”
“I believe you,” he said. “Only that’s not the reason you’re sitting here in a nightdress when you should be asleep.” His attention didn’t stir from her face, but she flushed nonetheless.
“I didn’t want to wake Gwen or Lena,” she said, then sighed, the excuse weak even in her own ears. “It concerns me that the other girls might depend on me to fight again and that I’ll fail them.” Like she’d failed Gwen today. Like she’d failed Teriana. Like she’d failed herself.
“Today wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I had a bad feeling about Malahi going into the city, but…” Shaking his head, he sat on the floor and rested his elbows on his knees.
“Gwen could’ve died because I didn’t know what I was doing.” She stared at the floorboards between them. Her hair fell forward to pool in her lap as she thought of how very different things would be if she’d been able to fight off Spurius when he’d chased her down, stopping her from warning Teriana. Or if she’d been able to hold off Marcus long enough for help to arrive. Or if she’d been as good with her fists as the women who’d attacked her in the shelter and stolen her coin. “I’m tired of being helpless.”
Of being a victim.
She clenched her hands into fists, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. Her body was so tense it hurt, each breath a struggle, though there was no reason for it. Her pulse roared in her ears, and all she wanted was to escape, to find some form of release from the fear that had hung over her from the moment Lucius had captured Teriana’s ship. A violent shiver took hold of her, though she wasn’t cold, and she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.
Then Killian’s fingers, warm and rough with callus, cupped her cheek, and she exhaled in a loud whoosh, leaning against his hand though she knew she should not.
“Breathe,” he instructed, and she drew in a ragged mouthful of air. “You aren’t helpless. You saved my life from the deimos, and I’m fairly capable with a sword.”
“Luck.”
“No, it wasn’t.” His thumb traced over her cheekbone. “You aren’t helpless. Your presence gives the other girls a fighting chance if one of the corrupted comes for Malahi, because without you, there is no warning. And without a warning, they don’t have a chance. You’re risking your life for them. There’s a word for that, but it isn’t luck.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head until his fingers caught in her hair, his other hand rising to hold her face steady. “Lydia, look at me.”
“I’m tired of being afraid,” she whispered, refusing his request. “Do you even know what fear feels like? What helplessness feels like?”
He hesitated, then said, “Yes. Every day. Every minute.”
Something about his tone—the truthfulness of it—steadied her heart, and she opened her eyes. His were dark, all humor gone. Then he looked away, shaking his head. “Everyone knows. Everyone in the gods-damned kingdom knows, but not you. Not the girl from the far side of the world.”
“What do you mean?”
“This war is my fault,” he said. “My mistakes were what allowed Rufina and her army to invade Mudamora.”
Lydia listened in rapt silence as he explained what had happened at the wall. The death of the corrupted woman. The subsequent attack from the rear that he saw coming a heartbeat too late.
His last conversation with his father.
“I’ve never told anyone that part,” he said, then shifted his weight to extract the sword belted at his waist. “This was his.”
It was an infinitely finer blade than the one Lydia had been given—and had subsequently lost—the steel engraved with a cursive script she couldn’t make out. The grip was well worn, but a large sapphire was set into the pommel and it glittered in the candlelight. “I think it’s the only thing I own that I couldn’t bear to lose.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It was a gift from King Derrick Falorn. They were friends, and my father was his sworn sword. I was—” He broke off, shaking his head.