Page 48 of When Kings Fall

Afterward, we lie tangled together, his body warm and solid next to mine. I can still feel the ghost of his touch lingering on my skin, but there’s a new heaviness in my chest. It presses down, a reminder that we aren’t alone in this.

“Niamh,” I say softly, my voice cutting through the quiet. Diarmuid doesn’t respond at first, but I know he’s listening. “We can’t abandon her. She’s a part of this, too.” I know he picked me, but she can’t be forgotten, we went through so much together.

His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer, but I don’t let the warmth of him distract me. This is too important. Niamh is too important.

“I know,” he finally says, his voice rough, like he’s been thinking the same thing all along. “We won’t.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Niamh

MY ARM SLICES through the water, each stroke steady and strong. The cold is a constant companion, biting at the edges of my skin despite the ocean grease and the layers of thermal swimming leggings, neoprene socks, and swim cap. It’s the kind of cold that doesn’t just wrap around you—it seeps in, becoming part of your bones, testing your endurance every second you spend in it. But I’m used to it now. I know how to handle it.

This isn’t a heated swimming pool with clear, blue water and predictable lanes. This is the Irish Sea. Dark, deep, and unforgiving.

I push my arm forward, the burn in my shoulders and back a reminder of just how far I’ve come. My muscles ache, but they’re strong now, stronger than I thought they ever could be. Each stroke pulls me closer to my goal, the familiar rhythm of my breathing steady against the cold. Breathe in. Breathe out. My chest tightens, but I don’t let it distract me.

I’ve learned to tune out the discomfort. The cold. The exhaustion. All that matters is the next stroke, the next kick. One more inch forward. One more stroke closer to the yacht bobbing just ahead of me.

“Almost there, Niamh!” The voice of my coach crackles over the wind, barely audible above the churning water. “You’re so close!”

Almost there. His words hit me like a jolt of energy. I grit my teeth and focus on the pull of my arms, the kick of my legs. Every muscle in my body feels tight, like a coiled spring. But I’ve gotthis. I can see the yacht now, the faint outline of it rocking on the waves. Just a little more.

The water presses in from all sides, dark and heavy. I think back to the first time I tried this. The panic that nearly drowned me before the waves could. I’d thrashed through the water, every stroke feeling like I was fighting a losing battle against an ocean that could swallow me whole. Back then, the sea felt like it had no end. Now? It’s different.

Now, I feel like I belong here.

I’ve trained for this. Every cold morning. Every lap in the pool. Every open-water swim where the saltwater stung my eyes and the cold numbed my limbs. I’ve earned this moment.

The yacht looms larger now, the sleek white hull a stark contrast to the dark sea. My fingers brush the side of the boat, and I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My legs feel like jelly, but I did it. I made it. My lungs scream for air, my body exhausted, but the satisfaction of reaching this point fills me with a rush of pride.

For a moment, I just float, staring up at the sky. The dull, gray clouds hang low, the wind biting at my wet skin. I listen to the sound of the waves lapping against the boat and the distant cries of seagulls circling overhead. I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by noise—chatter from people, music from ballet rehearsals, city traffic—but here, floating in the middle of the sea, there’s nothing but the water and the sky. A quiet I rarely find anywhere else.

“Grab my hand, Niamh!”

I turn toward the voice and see Ella, her face flushed with excitement, one hand reaching out to me. She’s grinning like she’s the one who just swam miles through freezing water. Before I can react, she’s practically bouncing on the deck, waving a towel in the air.

“Niamh, you did it! You’re amazing!”

I laugh despite myself, my chest heaving with every breath as I reach up. The boat sways beneath me as I pull myself out of the water, my arms shaking with the effort. The cold air bites harder now that I’m out, but Ella is there with the towel, wrapping it around me before I can protest.

“Careful!” I chuckle, leaning against the railing for support. “You’re going to knock me back into the sea if you keep this up.”

Ella just squeezes me tighter, practically bouncing with excitement. “I’m so proud of you! That was incredible!”

Her enthusiasm is infectious. I can’t help but grin, even though I’m still shivering. “I didn’t think you’d be this excited. You know it’s not even the full challenge yet, right?”

“I don’t care!” she exclaims, her eyes bright. “You’re one step closer. That’s all that matters.”

I glance at her, taking in the way her face lights up with genuine pride. She’s been by my side through all of this, ever since Diarmuid convinced our parents to give her time off from ballet. He had practically dragged her away from the endless rehearsals, insisting she needed a break. And now, after months of training and recovery, Ella’s here with me, cheering me on as my biggest fan.

It’s strange, the shift in our dynamic. For most of our lives, it was always me watching her—watching Ella from the audience, in awe of her grace and discipline on stage. Now, she’s watching me, and for the first time, I feel like I deserve her attention.

Our coach, a seasoned open-water swimmer himself, walks over with a grin. “Niamh, that was your best swim yet,” he says, clapping me on the back. “You’re getting faster and stronger. Keep this up, and you’ll be ready for the Channel swim in no time.”

I nod, still catching my breath. The idea of crossing the English Channel is daunting, but each swim like this brings mecloser. I should be focused on the Oceans Seven—that’s what I’ve trained for. That’s the dream, right?

But when I look at Ella, her excitement bubbling over, I realize that’s not what’s driving me anymore.

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