"Stop!" I yell, panting in the dust several yards behind the prince.

He turns his body towards me and continues to jog backwards. "Tired?"

"Yes!"

We've been running for nearly thirty minutes. It's fair to say I'm exhausted.

I tremble to a stop, and my body doubles over, hands on my thighs for support. Everything trembles, and sweat pours from my face.

"And I'm not wearing the right..." I point to my feet with a scowl. "Things! I'm not wearing the right things."

Eero laughs and jogs over to me. "You know, I thought you'd be tougher than this."

I glare up at him from my bent position. I am tougher than this, I want to say, but the words get lost between my dramatic inhales. It feels like I've been wrapped in seaweed for several hours. If I could just catch my breath, it wouldn't be so bad.

Who knew I'd be so out of shape on these stupid legs?

"Please," I manage to croak, "can we take a break?"

"Absolutely not," Eero says, grabbing my forearm and steering me towards the row of dummies. "You need to practice while your muscles are warmed up."

I grumble incoherently but don't resist. He's right. It'll be a lot harder to get started again if I fall out on the grass right now.

"Let's see that stance you were bragging to William about," Eero says, planting his hands on his hips. With his legs spread to shoulder width, he looks like a tree. His curls are the leaves, his tattoos the bark. All we need are the roots and a couple of stray birds to nest on him.

Still groaning, I shift myself into position: legs spread to nearly shoulder-width, right foot slightly forward, left foot back. My arms come up under my chin, but I tuck them closer to my chest than I did in my fight with William. I learned my lesson there.

"Decent," Eero says.

"Decent?!"

"Your back," he mumbles, beginning to circle me. I jump as his hand grazes my spine. It starts at the base, where he presses the wet fabric to my skin, runs up the buttons, and ends in the nook between my shoulder blades. Even though there are several layers between us, I still shiver. "Straighten it. You've got a slight curve here, and that could throw off your balance."

Without warning, he sets one hand on my shoulder and flattens the other on my back. Then he pushes, fixing my posture. Of course, that would be an issue; I've never had to stand upright before.

"Your defense is good. I saw that with William. We just need to work on your offensive tactics," he says, letting go of me. I let out a short breath and watch him walk back around me. He points at the row of dummies. "Strike."

"With my... fist?"

"No, with your foot," he deadpans. "Yes, rød fisk. With your fist."

He returns to his position behind me and plants that giant hand on my spine again. I grit my teeth and ignore the pressing of each finger pad against the fabric.

While he holds me in place, I strike out at the sack of flour. Eero watches over my shoulder, more attentive than any instructor I've had before.

"Again," he says. I repeat the movement, wincing as the rough texture scrapes against my knuckles. "Again."

Huffing, I punch. Again. This strike results in my entire face contorting in discomfort. I clench my fist to my chest and resist the urge to shake it out. Eero's stern face doesn't change; he just watches me for a second before telling me to do it again.

This continues several more times. Until I figure out that he's waiting for me to stop complaining about the pain. The next time after, I grit my teeth and thrust my fist out again. No matter what, I refuse to let him see how badly the material hurts me.

"I see you figured it out," he says with a laugh. A couple of hits ago, he moved away and now stands beside me with his arms crossed over his chest. "Does the burlap hurt?"

I glare at him. "A little."

"It's because you've got girly hands."

"Excuse me?" And here I thought he wasn't a sexist monster!

"It's true." Without warning, Eero grabs my hand and holds it up to my face. The knuckles are bright red and raw. Several of them are bleeding. "They're very sensitive. Is that better?"

I snatch my hand away from him. "Yes." Clutching the poor hand close to my chest, I ask, "Are you going to actually teach me or just watch me suffer?"

Eero laughs and hooks his thumbs in his pockets. "Both, actually. I needed to see if you could hit properly."

"And...?"

"You can."

My annoyance comes to a ripe head. "So?"

"So now, I need to know how hard you can hit." Prince Eero steps in front of me and pats his abdomen. By now, the white shirt is translucent from sweat. "Hit me."

My eyes shoot up from their ogling and widen as I study his face. A dozen different emotions flit through my head.

Hitting him is all I've dreamed of doing since I saw him on the edge of that ship. Actually, I've thought of doing a lot worse to him. But maybe hitting him will take the edge off the frustration and confusion I'm being swamped with.

Then again, he's royalty. If this is a trap, I could be in serious trouble.

But, if I'm being honest, it's worth the risk to get to punch him.

I take my stance and strike quickly in his direction. Half expecting him to stop me, a surprised gasp leaves my mouth when my fist slams into his stomach.

His incredibly hard stomach.

The shock reverberates up my arm and sends me back a step. I clutch my hand to my chest, hissing in pain. Eero looks concerned for half a second, but amusement quickly takes over.

"You okay?"

"Don't pretend you care," I snap, cuddling my hand. "Did you even feel that?"

He laughs. "Of course I did. Felt like a fly landing on me."

Indignation flares up in my chest, and before I can stop myself, I punch him again. Twice as much effort goes into this one.

Eero actually flinches.

"Is that all you got?" he taunts.

I glare at him and launch a third strike. This one hits right above his belt line, dangerously close to where I'm going to target if he doesn't stop riling me up.

"Good," he says, a little breathless. "Use your anger. Let it drive your hits."

I see what he's doing now, but I don't like it.

As I ready myself for a fourth punch, I recall the moment I saw him standing on his ship, when I was so sure he was invading to attack. How he held his shoulders back and looked over my kingdom with eyes the color of the ocean itself. How he seemed to belong on that bow, on those waves, among the surf. How furious I was at the nerve of him.

Channeling the same rage that thundered through my body on that unforgettable morning, I hit him again. It isn't until it's done that I realize a bit of magic seeped out. The air hums for a second with the static of Her energy.

Eero stumbles back a few steps, holding his stomach. Pain crosses his face, but then that silly one-sided smirk replaces it. "That one hurt," he announces.

"Good!" I snap.

"Again." He's almost excited.

This pattern continues for a few minutes. Hit after hit, burst after burst. After a while, the pain in my hand and arm fades and is replaced by a warm sensation in my muscles. My skin tingles from sun exposure, but I don't feel it. Not like I did before, anyway. Instead, I concentrate on keeping a straight spine, controlling how much magic I put into my hits, and directing all of my wrath at Eero.

And he takes it with no complaints. Sometimes, he'll tell me I'm slipping and push me harder. Occasionally, I'll get a compliment, but those are few and far between.

Then he starts catching my fist before I get to his stomach. The sweat that's pouring off the both of us makes our hands slippery, but he wraps his fingers around my tiny fist and grins at me. There's a thin line of brown dirt under his otherwise well-kept nails. The same calluses that pressed against my thigh earlier scratch my knuckles now.

"Did I do something wrong?" I ask, shoulders heaving as I pant.

"No. You're holding consistent. I just thought I'd complicate things a bit." He releases my fist. "Again."

When I swing this time, he dodges. I scoff and swing faster, but he swerves out of the way again. I step forward; he pushes back. I aim a shot left; he steps right. If I get too close, he deflects me with one strong shove.

Turns out, I can't hit him when he's actually trying.

"Stop—" Another swing. Miss. "Dodging—" I aim for his stomach this time, but he catches my fist and pushes it back towards me. I dance back a few steps, which is a clear sign that my posture was lacking.

I suck in a frustrated breath and restart my sentence. "Stop dodging, and tell me how to hit you!"

"Where's the fun in that?" he replies with a laugh.

My frustration builds. How is he so good at annoying me? I preferred when he was quiet and broody.

"Come on, rød fisk. Hit. Me."

I reposition myself into the stance I've been holding for what feels like hours and survey him. If I want to hit him, I'll have to catch him off guard. That means I need to strike in a way I haven't before.

In my own way.

Smirking, I aim my next hit at his left ribs. He ducks right, and I cut upwards faster than he can expect. My fist slams into his jaw, sending him reeling sideways. Pain radiates up my arm, but I don't relent. Now yet. I can't let him recuperate.

Before he even knows what I'm doing, I slam another punch into his ribcage.

Eero gasps for breath and throws himself at me. I expect him to tackle me, but instead, he pins my arms down with gigantic hands.

"Stop that," he growls, eyes dark.

Is he really mad? After he pushed me towards this edge?

"Isn't that what you wanted?" I hiss, trying to wiggle away. Instead, he tightens his grip. His thumbs dig into my ribcage.

"It's exactly what I wanted, but you didn't need to hit me twice."

I grin up at him. "No, I needed to hit you so many more times."

Eero takes a dangerous step towards me, so close that his hot breath washes down my face. The blue strands of his iris entangle with lighter green ones, water and algae combined. I smell Josef's seasoning on his breath, feel the heat rising off his skin, taste the salt in the sweat-infused air. His mouth parts slightly, dry lips opening for...

No.

Snap out of it!

I wrench myself one more time, and his grip lessens, letting me get away.

He scowls at me. "Two laps. Now."

"What? No!"

Prince Eero points at the training field. "Two. Laps."

"Why?" I whine.

"For abusing a member of the royal family."

I roll my eyes. "That's absolutely ridiculous. You told me to!"

"And now, I'm telling you to run two laps," he says. "Don't pick and choose which commands to follow. Anjord demands full loyalty."

Still glaring at him, I take off at a slow jog. My legs burn from the moment I start.

Regardless of how much the punishment hurts, it was worth it. My magic's burning through my veins, feeling closer than it has in days. I feel...

Like myself.

I circle the far end of the field and catch a glimpse of Eero standing where I left him. He's rubbing his jaw, but the scowl is gone.

Instead, he's smirking at me.

Not the annoying one sided smirk but a proud, tiny one.

The smile melts away the rest of the barrier I'd constructed between us.

We train every morning without fail for two more days. More often than not, Eero and I don't actually talk. We're a well-oiled machine, able to fall into a comfortable routine of strikes and lunges, blocks and blows. We run, improve my strength, practice with short swords and daggers, and learn defensive maneuvers designed for someone my size.

By the end of the week, my muscles don't burn painfully like they used to. Instead, it's a warm sensation I can appreciate. I feel stronger and more confident. More capable.

The temperature, on the other hand, is nowhere close to an appreciative level. It continues to rise, turning into a rare autumn heat wave. When Amaia finally catches on to our morning adventures, she starts forcing me to wear fewer layers of clothes. My underskirt gets left behind, and she trims my sleeves shorter than the other maids.

Even Josef helps. He prepares a balm for me to soothe the slight pink burn that has sprouted across my skin and sends extra water in chilled ceramic jugs. I find packets of cold sweets for us to share stuffed between them.

I do get a thorough talking-to for going to train with Eero, but neither of them tries to stop me.

It's almost like they approve.

Which is beyond weird.

Every day, I leave the field well-past lunch, scrub the dirt and sweat off of me, and hurry to help Madam Amaia with the housework. As long as I keep up, she doesn't complain about the later schedule. No one else in the palace seems to know where I'm going. Or if they do, they're keeping quiet about it.

With all the training and work, by the time I'm finally able to lie down at night, all I can manage is a page or two of the mythos before I fall into a content, exhausted sleep.

In the afternoon of my fourth consecutive day of training, I finally catch a break. I'm cleaning the uniforms with the washboard and a bucket of soap flakes. The mythos is propped on the grass in front of me, safely away from the water. The breeze catches one of the pages, and several of them flutter to where I shoved Eero's note, the one where he told me to meet him that first day.

I run my hand along the heavy indentations, and the wave of familiarity hits me again.

Where have I seen this writing before?

Resigned to figure it out after the washing is complete, I heft the mythos into my lap and flip it to its back. Gently, I unfold Eero's note and lay it between the cover and the final page.

My gaze falls on a handwritten addition to the last page. Most of it is unintelligible, water damaged beyond readability. But the last line of words chills me to the core.

I know it's her because I could never forget her eyes. Green, like the hills that surround the Valley of Hillde. And her hair... gorgeous and warm, a sun I'll never be able to touch. I'm sure if given the chance, this little mermaid will burn me alive.

The handwriting.

Fanciful and neat, little curls and swirls in unnecessary places.

It matches the note perfectly. I feel silly for not realizing right away.

But that's not what makes my breath abandon me.

It's the simple fact that Eero...

He remembers me.