I sensed the radiance about him, how his magic teemed in his hands. He was very anxious about this upcoming night, I realized, and I gave myself a moment to imagine what it would be like to fight alongside him instead of against him on a new moon.

The image seemed natural—the two of us on the darkest of nights moving in tandem, and I thought back to our new moon battle in Hereswith, only a month ago—and the ache in my stomach woke again, a flutter of warning.

“You never answered my question from before,” he said.

I stopped halfway to him, a square of sunlight on the floor between us. “Oh? And what was that?”

“If you’ve ever been sword trained.”

“No,” I lied. My father had taught me how to handle all manners of weapons.

He held out a rapier for me to take. I closed the last of the space between us and took hold of the hilt carefully.

“You prefer to fight with weapons rather than spells on the new moon?” I asked.

“Spells always come first,” Phelan replied. “But I’ve learned it’s good to be armed as well.”

I secretly agreed, remembering how I had once worn my weapon belt on new moon nights. How a blade had saved my life last time, when I had nearly drowned in a nest of lily pads and snakes.

I listened as Phelan introduced me to the rapier, instructing me on how I should hold it in my hand. When he demonstrated a few stances and thrusts, I mimicked him with ease.

“You have good form,” he said with a hint of scrutiny.

“I’m a swift learner,” I replied, and then took a daring slash at him.

Phelan was too slow in guarding himself. The tip of my rapier brushed his face and he lurched back with a hiss. I watched a line of blood well on his right cheek before he dropped his weapon and turned away from me.

“Oh, I’m sorry! Here, let me see it . . .” I followed him, setting my rapier down with a clatter.

He continued to evade me, face averted. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t bother.”

I didn’t like him running from me. I reached out to snag his sleeve, guiding him to the desk. He surrendered, sitting on the edge of it, his palm pressed to the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers and I had a moment of panic, thinking I had cut open his face until he lowered his hand.

It was only a nick, but it was profusely bleeding.

“It’s not as bad as it seems,” I said. “Do you have a—”