I had already moved on to my next painting, one that boasted a knight in plated armor, wielding a great sword. I briefly thought of the menacing knight who had haunted Elle Fielding’s dream and summoned this painted one forward. He was tall and slow at first, as if waking from a long sleep, but his footsteps made the floors tremble, and I urged him to Phelan.

The knight did as I wanted. I noticed how Phelan’s handsome face drained white, as if he had seen a ghost. His eyes went wide and dark; his hands quivered as he raised them in a defensive stance.

The knight swung his sword and Phelan leapt back, almost a moment too late as my knight cut the table in half. Wood splintered and cracked. The walls shook, the frames rattling in protest. My heart beat cold and swift as I watched Phelan frantically cast a charm that rebounded off the knight’s breastplate. The knight grunted and attempted another decapitation, unfazed by Phelan’s magic.

Phelan was terrified, uncertain how to fell this knight. And he was no use to me dead or wounded. His fear, though, was intriguing and a touch satisfying.

I curled my fingers and the knight swayed, exposing his neck for a brief moment.

Phelan rushed to meet the weakness, his magic slicing the opponent’s neck clean to the bone. Down my knight went, in chunks of armor, like a crumbling pillar of stone.

I wasn’t finished yet, though. I stepped to the third painting, one that depicted four wolves running in a snowy landscape. The wolves came to me, docile as pups until I whispered Phelan’s name to them. Their coats were thick, each a different shade of gray and glittering with snow, and they stalked to Phelan on silent paws.

He was surrounded, and yet he fought them boldly, even as their claws shredded through his sleeves and pants, and I saw his blood begin to well and drip.

Ease, I told the wolves. I permitted Phelan to vanquish them one by one, his magic radiant, growing in strength and accuracy, as if he at last had learned the steps to my dance. And then it was over. He had slain all four wolves, and they lay as snowdrift at his feet.

Panting and speckled with blood, he looked at me. Between us lay a carnage of magic and charms—black feathers that glistened blue in the light, pieces of armor, an abandoned great sword, icy swaths of snow. Phelan removed his top hat and raked his hand through his hair, and I saw how he bled, how he trembled. He was not badly wounded, his pride and confidence more shaken than anything else.