“I can’t. I’m too tired.” I pant loudly to prove it.

He scoffs and rests his hands on his rounding belly. “Nonsense. Pick it up.”

My blood boils, and I fling my head back to stare at the ceiling. “I’m tired, Father. We’ve been at this for hours! Perhaps, if you’d let me rest or eat…”

A rumble escapes his throat as he strides toward me.

He gestures to my opponent, one of the several stone-faced castle guards who rotate through my training sessions. “Give me your blade.” The guard immediately obeys.

“Pick it up,” he barks.

“Father…”

“I will bring this sword down on you in three seconds, Idalia. You will retrieve yours and fight me, or you will die.” He raises the guard’s weapon above his head.

My eyes widen. I look up at my father’s hands, gripped firmly around the hilt, his fingers milky white from the effort.

The guard’s expression doesn’t change, and he doesn’t move. I know he won’t protect me if my father follows through on his warning.

“One.”

I gaze at him. He wouldn’t.

“Two,” he drawls, his voice low and gritty. He breathes in, and I eye my blade, only a few inches away. His chest thrusts as he stabs the sword higher.

“Thr–”

I roll to my left, grabbing my weapon’s hilt. I don’t even have the chance to scramble up before my father swings the sword with his whole force. His blade crashes into mine. My gasp is more of a squeak as I stare at the sharp edges pushing against each other.

My eyes flick up to meet his satisfied grin.

He steps back, removing his weight from my sword. “Good,” he says as he hands the blade back to the guard.

“Now that we know you are not, in fact, too tired to wield your weapon, we can continue.” He saunters back to the corner.

“You were prepared to kill me,” I blurt out. “You would truly kill me! Your daughter, your only heir! Are you mad?”

My father stiffens. When he’s back in his safe little corner, he turns and answers. “You know why it is necessary, Idalia. Do not waste what little energy you have left on these sporadic emotions. Channel that energy into your training. Focus on the goal.”

“And what goal is that, exactly?! To train until I die? Or to die as I train?!”

He laughs under his breath, but the sound doesn’t convey humor. His stark eyes pierce mine.

“When the Braders murdered your mother, I swore to her─and to the gods─that I would protect you. That you would never be as vulnerable as she was. I swore to make you a woman capable of fighting for her life.”

My father rarely brings up my mother or the circumstances of her death unless he’s in a fit of rage. But I don’t sense anger today. His expression is colder than the winter winds roaring outside our castle walls.

“You complain of your long hours training here and on horseback because you do not understand their purpose.”