The evening sun beat down on them, gilding the cliffs in gold and casting the world into sepia. The grass that had been a soft green when Ranka first arrived had fried to sad brown as a relentless summer rolled toward a dry, rainless fall. For the past week all of southern Isodal had been gripped by yet another heat wave. Water mages were called out to farmlands to try to save wilting crops, leaving only a skeleton rank of guards within the palace. The whole city buzzed with restless energy. Even the palace had the sense of something swelling, like a storm on the horizon, gathering strength before it hit land. Ranka didn’t know what was brewing in Seaswept’s heart, only that it was nothing good.

Now she stood weaponless across from Percy, a battered sparring sword in each hand, sweat dripping from her sunburned skin. Her vision sputtered to gray, and her palms itched with that familiar ache.

She was trying to kill him, and the unhinged bastard was enjoying it.

Focus, Aramis’s voice rang through her mind. And breathe.

Ranka exhaled through her nose. She tried to imagine her magic as a river inside her, like Aramis had instructed—flowing through her heart, her limbs, her legs. Spreading out in shallow ripples, instead of roaring in a tidal wave that blocked out the world. A force to be controlled and directed, instead of one that swept her along, taking her and anything in its path with it.

“Sometime today, Bloodwinn,” Percy yawned. “Or are you tired? Do you fancy a nap? Shall I fetch you some tea, maybe? A pillow, for your delicate head?”

When Ranka trained with the Skra, she’d always held back for fear of hurting them. But Percy was another story. Percy, with his snakeskin scent and gold eyes, was a challenge, egging her on, prodding her to fight harder, better, and stronger.

And Percy was fast.

He was a blur against the hard-packed earth, a whirlwind of flying limbs and flashing scars. Witches fought dirty and in close quarters, while humans were slow footed and favored distance—but Percy danced, circling and sidestepping, weaving and twirling, never staying in one place for more than a breath. He was beautiful to watch and infuriating to fight.

The practice swords snapped against her ribs, her stomach, her shins. Ranka lunged for him but snagged only fabric. A sword cracked against her cheek. Ranka spat out a mouthful of blood, her jaw smarting. “What the hell?”

“Percy!” Aramis shouted. “No head shots!”

“So sorry,” Percy said. “I can’t hear you, must be the wind!”

Ranka struggled to quell the rage spiking in her.

Think of your power like a rush of adrenaline, Aramis had instructed. A chemical in your system, boosting you up. Harness that rush, and breathe through it—make it last, instead of letting it overpower you in one great wave.