The private training sessions are different. Twice a week, we meet in an abandoned training room in the eastern wing. There, he's been teaching me how to use my size and speed to my advantage, how to fight opponents twice my strength, how to survive. His hands adjust my stance, his voice low and rough as he corrects my form, his body close enough that I can feel his unnatural heat.

But it's always professional. Always clinical. There's never idle conversation, and as far as I can tell, his one and only purpose is to make sure I can defend myself better.

I force my attention back to Beck just in time to dodge a water whip aimed at my legs. “Too busy drooling to defend, huh?”

"Shut up," I say, glaring as I pull my attention from Raith.

My momentary distraction costs me. Beck's next attack catches me in the chest, drenching me from neck to waist.

We're all able to put force behind our attacks, but being a water carries the advantage of letting us practice with relatively harmless spells when we want. In a real fight, Ryke has been teaching us how to sharpen each droplet of water, turning an otherwise harmless splash into a deadly blade that can cleave through flesh and bone.

But Beck's attack is nothing more than cold water splashing and soaking me as it connects.

I pull the water from my clothing. Droplets magically wick from the fabric, my skin, and my hair, drifting in front of my body in a wall of droplets. With a thought, I reach into each droplet and reshape them into inch-long needles.

"Hey now, that's—" Beck starts, but I gesture, and the needles fly toward him.

They form an outline, punching pinprick holes in the loose points of his clothing but not even scratching him. He looks behind and sees the needles stuck in the stone wall, then looks down at his clothes and pulls his sleeve out. Dozens of little holes let the light through.

"Gods, Nessa," Beck says, grinning. "You're scary as hell."

As I release the water needles, letting them splash to the ground, I feel another presence behind me. Not Raith this time.

"Impressive control, Thorne," Primal Ryke says, his voice cool but not unkind. "For someone who could barely form a sphere two months ago, your progress is... noteworthy."

Coming from Ryke, this is practically effusive praise. I duck my head, unused to compliments from instructors. "Thank you."

He studies me for a moment, head tilted. "Your channeling has a unique signature. Almost as if..." He trails off, then straightens. "The Rector mentioned… well, never mind. Just report to his office tomorrow at sunset. And don't be late for once."

Report to the fucking Rector’s office? Holy shit… Ryke gives the order almost casually, but there’s nothing casual about the command.