Page 55 of The Prince's Captive

“Twenty.” She could feel his chest puff against her back. “We… leave learning house at eighteen or nineteen, depending. That’s when our soldiers are made. You—” His head shook against her curls. “Should not be. Notyears.”

She breathed deeply and squirmed against his grip but couldn’t go anywhere. “I don’t care if you think I shouldn’t be a soldier. My mediocrity is obvious, given the fact that I am here to be thrown away. If you have such an issue with the age we train our mages to be soldiers, stop trying to wipe us off the earth.”

“Then when there is peace. Things will be different.”

She had no idea what he was talking about. How could there be any peace between two people so wholly incompatible?

“Why does it matter to you?”

He adjusted his grip on the reins and shifted his legs, muttering, “Still. Or fall. Matters because…” He made a noise in the back of his throat. “Why do I bother? You think I breathe lies.”

Marcella stilled. There was something about the way he had muttered those words.

Or maybe it was the way he was holding her—having him so close was muddling her brain and weakening her like it had the night before. She rested her left hand over his wrapped around her waist. She turned her head slightly, the side of her face just barely brushing his and whispered, “If you are telling the truth, soon enough I will see it. Maybe I will surprise you yet.”

His hand tightened over her scar. “Very little faith for someone who claims to have so much of it.”

“You are not my goddess that I will put my faith in you.” She couldn’t stop her breath hitching, but she pushed on through. “You are just a man. An Inimicus illusionist at that. Even if you were a good man, all men disappoint eventually.”

He started to pull his hand back from her side and lean back.

She curled her fingers over his and lowered her voice. “But that does not mean I do not want to believe.”

There was a long moment and she just felt the heat of his front press against her back once more and his hand beneath hers.

“Alright… Family. Much to tell you. I have older brother. He is… much—intense, but means well. My parents… are also much, and not as… You will see.” He sighed. “I speak, you speak?”

Why would his family matter?

“I already told you I have no direct family, just the clan.”

“Speak about you. What did you do before this?”

“I was a soldier.” She tilted her head so she could see him better, practically daring him to return to his disgust for her ineptitude and her people’s customs. “I trained.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

What a question.

“Don’t all mages enjoy their magic?”

Gavril chuckled, and she could feel his chest vibrate against her back. “Suppose I haven’t met one who doesn’t.”

He tried to prompt her a few more times, but Marcella kept her mouth shut until he finally sighed and gave up. The horse kept plodding along with the other Inimicus who were far more talkative. Their conversations—like the night before—were all about what they were going to do when they were back home.

She heard the term “puella” several times from them.

The fifth time someone said, “—mea puella—” Gavril leaned in and said, “Girl.”

She startled, looking over her shoulder at him. He elaborated, “Puella, in your tongue, girl. They’re talking about their girls.”

She didn’t understand why he was telling her. But now—

“Insulting them?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Is it an insulting term for a girl?”

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