A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses #4) by Sarah J. Maas

She did so, panting hard, knees trembling and thighs bleating in burning pain. When she’d finished, she propped herself up with the pole she’d lifted over her head. “That’s it?”

“Unless you want to bargain with me for a second hour.”

“You really want to owe me two favors?”

“If it’ll keep you here to finish the lesson, sure.”

“I’m not sure I can take any more of these stretches.”

“Then we’ll do some breathing work and then a cooldown.”

“What’s a cooldown?”

“More stretching.” He grinned. When she opened her mouth, he explained, “It’s designed to help bring your body back to a normal pace and limit any soreness you’ll have later.”

His tone held no condescension. So she asked, “And what’s breathing work?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” He put a hand on his stomach, right on those rippling muscles, and took a big, inhaling breath before slowly releasing it. “Your power when you fight comes from many places, but your breathing is one of the big ones.” He nodded toward the stick in her hands. “Thrust it forward like you’re skewering someone with a spear.”

Brows rising, she did so, the motion awkward and inelegant.

He only nodded. “Now do it again, and as you do, inhale.”

She did, the motion markedly weaker.

“And now do it again, but exhale with the thrust.”

It took her a second or two to orient her breathing, but she obeyed, shoving the stick forward as she blew out a breath. Power rippled down her arms, her body.

Nesta blinked at the stick. “I could feel the difference.”

“It’s all linked. Breath and balance and movement. Bulky muscle like this”—he tapped that absurdly contoured stomach of his—“means shit when you don’t know how to utilize it.”

“So how do you learn to control your breathing?”

He smiled again, hazel eyes bright in the sun. “Like this.”

So began another series of movements, all so damned simple when he demonstrated, but nearly impossible to coordinate in her own body when she went to replicate them. But she focused on her breathing, on the power of it, as if her lungs were the bellows of some great forge.

The sun arced higher, crossing the training space, dragging the shadows with it.

Inhale. Exhale. Breaths accented by a deep lunge, or a squat, or balancing on one leg. All exercises she’d done in the first hour, but now revealed anew with the added layer of breathing.

Breathing in and out, out and in, body and mind flowing, her concentration unwavering.

Cassian’s commands were firm, but gentle, encouraging without being irksome. Hold it, hold it, hold it—and release. Good. Again. Again. Again.

There wasn’t a part of her body that wasn’t sliding with sweat, wasn’t one part that wasn’t shaking as he bade her lie down on a black mat at the far end of the ring. “Cooldown,” he said, kneeling and patting the mat.

She was too tired to object, practically flinging herself onto it and staring at the sky.

The blue bowl arched into forever, the sun stinging against the sweat on her face. Wisps of clouds drifted through the dazzling blue, unconcerned with her entirely.

Her mind had become as clear as that sky, the fog and pressing shadows gone. “Do you like flying?” She didn’t know where the question came from.

He peered down at her. “I love it.” The truth rang out in those words. “It’s freedom and joy and challenge.”

“I met a female shop owner at Windhaven who’d had her wings clipped.” She turned her head from the sky to look over at him. His face had tightened. “Why do Illyrians do that?”

“To control their women,” Cassian said with quiet anger. “It’s an old tradition. Rhys and I tried to stamp it out by making it illegal, but change takes a while amongst the High Fae. For stubborn asses like the Illyrians, it takes even longer. Emerie—I’m assuming that’s who you met, since she’s the only female shop owner—was one who slipped through the cracks. It was during Amarantha’s reign, and … a lot of shit slipped through the cracks.”

His eyes turned haunted, not only from what had been done to Emerie by her father, Nesta could tell, but at the memories of those fifty years. The guilt.

And perhaps it was to save him from reliving those memories, to banish that unwarranted guilt in his eyes, that she nestled against the mat and said, “Cooldown.”

“You sound eager.”

She met his stare. “I …” She swallowed. Hated herself for balking, and forced herself to say, “The breathing makes my head stop being so …” Horrible. Awful. Miserable. “Loud.”

“Ah.” Understanding washed over his face. “Mine too.”

For a moment, she held his gaze, watched the wind tug at the strands of his shoulder-length hair. The instinct to touch the sable locks had her pressing her palms to the mat, as if physically restraining herself.

“Right.” Cassian cleared his throat. “Cooldown.”



She’d done well. Really damn well.

Nesta finished the cooldown and sprawled on the black mat, as if needing to piece herself together. Rally her strength.

Cassian let her, rising to his feet and walking to the water station to the right of the archway. “You need to drink as much water as you can,” he said, taking two glasses and filling them from the ewer on the small table. He returned to her side, sipping from his own.