I center myself, focusing on the moisture in the air. Drawing from the environment rather than from myself has become easier with practice. Bits and pieces from the unbound book along with Typhon's knowledge of unbound status have massively accelerated my progress.

Normal water affinities push the water from within themselves.

For me, it's the opposite. I extend my awareness outward, drawing from sources beyond myself. Moisture in the air, gusts of wind, the stored potential in the stone beneath my feet, and the bits of heat in human bodies or torches all work. Except I only ever channel water when others are watching for obvious reasons. My biggest advantage is versatility, but while I’m posing as a water affinity, I’m forced to stick to only water.

In other words, everybody else in this room has a reservoir of power the size of a lake and I’m drawing from something more like a bathtub. But the limitations have made me more precise. More strategic. The others waste power while I make use of every drop of essence I can grab.

We circle each other as Ambrose and Mireen back away to give us room. Beck moves first, sending a wave of water rushing toward me like a battering ram. I sidestep, using a pulse of energy from my palm to disperse it. The water falls to the ground in harmless drops.

Drawing more moisture from the air, I form three spinning discs of water and launch them in quick succession. Beck blocks the first two with his shield, but the third catches him in the shoulder, knocking him back and sending him twisting through the air like a ragdoll.

Uther slips under him, cushioning his fall with his watery back.

"Not bad," Beck admits, sliding off Uther with a grateful pat on the beast's head. He shakes water from his sandy blonde hair.

I'm about to respond when I feel a familiar prickle at the back of my neck. I turn slightly, just enough to confirm my suspicion.

Raith stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. Even from across the room, I can feel the heat of his attention on me as he tracks my movements. His affinity mark has grown more than anyone in the first years. Lines of red-orange trail up his thick forearms and reach the bottom of his left bicep in a way that’s admittedly… nice.

Our eyes meet briefly, and a ghost of a smile touches his lips before his expression returns to its usual stoic mask. It's been like this for weeks now—him appearing at the edges of wherever I am, watching, assessing. Keeping his promise to protect me, but maintaining a careful distance in public.