Shadow Touched (Editing)

8. FINCH

I stomp away from Grey's chambers, anger bubbling in the pit of my stomach. Anger and an overwhelming sense of concern. They mix together in a toxic pool, making my chest burn.

Grey looks off. There was a moment just now when I could have sworn someone else was looking at me from behind his eyes. It left me feeling uneasy. It's not the first time I've felt that way with him.

I've noticed he's become cold. Calculating. And far less patient. Sometimes, I think he despises me, though I've no clue what I've done. It's unnerving. I know he's not been sleeping. The entire castle, gods—the entire country—knows the heir to the throne has night terrors. His screams can be heard floors below. There was never going to be a way to contain that knowledge. Gods know I tried.

Maybe that's why I've agreed to his outrageous request. I feel bad that I can't shield him from the whispers. As head of the Royal Guard, it's my job to keep him safe. But now, I can't help being angry that he would ask me to go to Naima. He knows that I despise her. No, despise is too gentle a word. She is the bane of my existence. To me, she is worse than the impending doom of the Gloaming. She is a menace. A hell God intent on destroying everything and everyone she touches.

I head down the long corridor from the Prince's chambers. The hallway is dark, with only a few sconces lit. It's lined with luxuriously thick dark grey carpet that perfectly muffles the sound of footsteps. It's the only hallway with carpet, a request Prince Greyling made five years ago when Naima entered the picture. It's much harder to hear one's comings and goings this way. Not that Naima's ever worked particularly hard to hide anything she does.

I round the corner and slam open the stairwell door. Taking the stairs two at a time, I barely notice the ornately painted walls that detail stories of the long-dead gods.

The castle is a maze of hallways and stairwells. It sits on the tallest mountain in the country—the Mynah Peak—stretching high into the sky. Grey's rooms are in the west wing on one of the uppermost floors, so it takes forever to get from them. I don't mind. It gives me time to be alone with my thoughts, which currently are a swirling mess of worry and outrage.

Grey knows I've been keeping track of Naima these five years. After all, he's had me delivering letters to her all this time. Surprisingly, he's never asked how I found her so easily. We have a sort of, don't ask, don't tell policy when it comes to Naima.

I'm sure he knows how she lives. There's not much difference from her life now than the one she lived at court. Only now, she's free to really give into her baser needs. She's fully shed her identity as Lady Naima DeLumine. She's Mercy—a thief and a mercenary. She steals for profit. A profit she doesn't even need. General Roman left her his entire estate.

She spends her days dealing with low-level thugs and conmen, assassins and other career criminals who pass their time backstabbing each other. Each trying to prove themselves the biggest and baddest of all the felons.

From the intel I've gathered, she's right at the top of that insidious food chain. She's somehow managed to keep her identity hidden. It's the only time I can think of that she's exerted any kind of discretion.

I storm my way through the castle, thoughts of Naima only worsening my mood. My big black boots boom across the marble floor as my broad shoulders cut a swath through the servants and courtiers who line the hallways. They jump out of my way as if I were on fire.

Naima. Her name rings in my head. She's like an oleander, using her beauty to enthral those around her only to poison them when they dare get too close.

Not a single person interrupts me as I head to the training rooms. I imagine it's because I have a face like thunder. I hold my mouth so tight I'm sure it's nothing more than a slash of rage.

Grey asked me to leave immediately, but I don't care. If I'm to see Naima, I need to get a handle on my anger. She will try me at every possible turn. The last thing I want is to give her the satisfaction of getting under my skin. So no, I won't be leaving immediately, regardless of the Prince's request. Instead, I will pummel a training dummy until it falls apart, my hands bleed, or both.

It's after midnight when I reach the training rooms. Thankfully, they're empty.

The space is large—big enough to hold upwards of 100 soldiers. It's stocked with wing-chun dummies, weights of every kind and target boards. To the right is the taping station, mats for stretching and wrestling, and a large roped boxing ring in the center. Right now, I'd give my right hand to spar with anyone.

The weapons room is in the far left corner, beside the wall of mirrors. Normally, I'd start there, grabbing a backsword to practice with or, when I'm feeling particularly brutish, a dragon's fist. I tend to go for that kind of weapon when I feel my men are becoming lax. It requires a combination of skill and strength that drives home the importance of training. Since I'm alone, I head straight for a dummy for some hand-to-hand work.

I don't bother with changing my clothes. Nor do I wrap my hands. I want to feel the sting of each hit. I lay out combination after combination: jab-cross-hook-cross, jab-jab-cross, right cross-left-hook-right-cross, on and on. As I land each punch, hitting each mark on the dummy with perfect precision, I feel my anger dissipate. Slowly, I let go of the simmering rage that rears its ugly head whenever Lady Naima enters the conversation. I go for an hour. And then another. I go until I am soaked through with sweat but satisfied that my temper is back under control.

No longer tense and irate, I return to my rooms in the castle's East Wing. I bathe and change, hastily packing a small bag. There's no need to inquire about Lady Naima's whereabouts.

I know exactly where she is.

~*~