A fine tremble had begun in her limbs. Were the Atrika already making their move? Or had her magick-laced plea for the attention of the witches fallen upon the ears of the air-inclined as she'd meant? It seemed too soon for the latter. She'd only sent her message the night before. Certainly, they couldn't be so close or mount a rescue so soon. Not if they were small in number and as weak as she was beginning to suspect.

By all the Houses, she hoped she was wrong.

Hope flickered and she quashed it. She couldn't afford to hope. She had to be ready for the worst to come through that door if she wanted to survive.

She glanced around, finding nothing she could use as a weapon. Her captors were careful to leave her room clear of such items. The only thing available to her was her tray from this morning's disgusting breakfast of runny oatmeal, dry toast, and thin orange juice served from a chemically flavored plastic cup.

Food here—with the exception of the golden cakes—was even worse than the military daaeman breed fare she'd grown up on. Marzaan was a standard gruel containing all the nutrients she needed to be healthy… except actual flavor.

She flipped everything off the tray and ran to the door.

The lights flickered again. The lock on her door buzzed and her fingers tightened around the tray. The knob turned and the door cracked ajar. Her skin prickled at the presence of other. Not completely human, whoever it was coming through. Not a nurse. Not a guard or a doctor.

The door opened enough to admit a human-sized individual and Claire stepped forward, swinging. It hit something solid with a clang. The lights flickered again.

"Ow!"

Gripping the tray, Claire backed away. Daaeman rarely said ow, especially not Atrika.

The door pushed all the way open and tall, broad man staggered forward holding a hand to his head. "I'm on your side, damn it." He pulled his hand away from his face. A red mark had bloomed in the center of his forehead. "Claire, right?"

She nodded. Aeamon. That's what he was. She could feel it now. A fire witch.

His hair was blond and stood up in spikey tufts around his head. His nose had been broken many times. Or maybe it had been broken once, badly, and had never mended right. It sat crooked in an otherwise attractive face along with dark blue eyes and a pair of expressively full lips. He wore a long black leather coat and had a black bag slung over one broad shoulder.

This man was the complete opposite of Thomas's dark, brooding handsomeness. Thomas was the first aeamon male she'd seen in… well, ever and was the measuring stick by which she judged all others.

Response stuck in her throat, she dropped the tray to her side. Smoke curled from beyond the doorframe. Apparently, he'd simply melted the lock on the door.