His eyes open and meet mine. A spark detonates, leaping between us as he breaks the kiss, and I swear I can see lightning flash in Vothe’s eyes before he quickly averts his gaze. But Vothe’s expression is more subdued now. Tight with tension.

You’re such a mystery, I consider, feeling tangled up in this frustrating draw that has residual lightning flashing up and down my lines in a stinging rush.

And Vothe’s demeanor...it’s changing around me.

The change is subtle, but there. He’s no longer purely hateful...more conflicted. I catch his looks of curiosity and scrutinize him right back.

Like I’m scrutinizing him right now.

I ponder how Vothe’s sniping bursts of sarcasm aren’t as frequent. How, when the stray barb does come, it’s as if Vothe is defending himself against some new threat. Each time, I pare back my own acid reply, refusing to let Vothe know his biting words cut me to the quick.

Basyl departs, leaving the ever-surrounded Vothe momentarily alone. I bid Viger and Sylla farewell, angling my arm to prod Viger’s serpent to slither down and return to him as the spiders scuttle off me and back to Sylla. Then I get up, step through the Death Fae mist, and approach my cursedly dazzling guard.

Vothe loses his faint smile, his neck tensing.

“It’s time,” I say, my words clipped as I hold up my small runic time-orb. “I’ve weapons training.”

That increasingly familiar look of conflict flares in Vothe’s gaze, his eyes briefly turning a dazzling silver that threatens to breach my composure.

“Well, then,” Vothe says, his expression remote, “we’d best not keep them waiting.”

Vothendrile

“We’ve got a surprise for the Crow.”

I flinch inwardly at Heelyn’s use of the slur as I stand with her on the same riverside terrace a few days later for weapons’ training. It’s growing increasingly infuriating, this ceaseless hurling of Crow and Roach at Trystan Gardner, my own use of the slurs having rapidly dropped away. They scrawl them on his belongings. On walls. And always, Trystan meets the abuse with his same stoic, unflappable facade. But I can sense past it. I can read in Trystan’s power how much it all wounds him, and I’m increasingly troubled by this.

“I agree that he shouldn’t be here,” I say, “but he genuinely wants to aid the Vu Trin, so maybe everyone should stop calling him that.” It’s becoming exasperating, her dogged hatred. I’m exasperated with the entire Wyvernguard these days. And vexed with myself.

Heelyn seems taken aback but shakes it off, a sly, conspiratorial look sliding over her features. “We blocked his wand.”

I freeze. My gaze snaps toward where Trystan is getting ready to square off against ten soldiers, my pulse kicking up. Trystan is about to be seriously injured.

“Ready your weapons!” Commander Ung Li commands.