Zahir leaps away so fast he stumbles. Flanagan grabs him to pull him back. Even the four behind the glass step away, mouths open.

My whole body rages with silvery-white fire. The roaring flames shoot outward across the ground, spreading like a carpet and licking up the walls to cover the ceiling. A flicker dances around my eyes. My face is on fire!

“Uhm, guys?”

Flanagan motions for Zahir to stay back and strides across to me.

He steps into the flames without concern and takes my head in his hands again. His touch extinguishes the flames around my face. He smiles, eyes bright with something like pride. “Stay calm.”

I grasp his biceps, knuckles white. “How do I turn it off?”

“Let it be for a moment. It won’t harm you.”

I close my eyes. There’s no discomfort, no burning. In fact, the tingling heat all over my skin causes blissful waves of pleasure and cools the heat inside my body. My thoughts have snapped from a drunken sway into crystal clarity. My arousal had settled too until Flanagan came close.

I let out a giddy laugh. “Whoa. This is wild.”

“The Flame follows your will.”

“Right.” I try to imagine the fire going out, but the image of Alexei’s oil-black eyes floats into my mind again, and they intensify. Thoughts of the prince seem to fuel the Flame.

When I check, the curling fire has spread to the far side, covering the window, forcing Zahir into a corner. I have no idea how to stop them.

“Flanagan, how—?”

“Shh, I’ve got you. Take a deep breath.” His calm rumble soothes my panic.

A knock at the door sounds, and a soldier’s head pokes into the room.

“Get out!” Zahir shouts.

Flanagan sweeps his hands over my body. Pats me down, the way you would an ordinary fire. Where his hands touch, the flames disappear. I stand stock-still while he works his way down my legs and round to tap my back. The flames in the room flicker out. When he’s finished, I’m left with only tingling and everyone staring at me in silence.

I check my skin for any sign of damage, but it looks untouched.

“Is that normal?” I ask.

Zahir’s booming laugh sounds like a clap of thunder. “Normal for you.” He turns to Flanagan. “Well, I think we can safely declare Michael an above-class Wielder. He’s clearly beyond a Class 7. We’ll have to train him with qualified soldiers.”

Flanagan grips the back of my neck and gives me a gentle shake. “I think our new Channeler has invented his own level.”

Our new Channeler? An unexpected smile stretches my lips.

The knock at the door sounds again. This time more urgent.

“Come,” Flanagan calls.