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“Right now, if you’d like. Who knows when Taly will find her next crisis. Though there is one thing I need your help with first.”

Ivain gestured for him to follow. As they walked, he said, “I had this whole speech prepared for when Taly finally settled down. One version if she found herself a human, and another if it ended up being that Lowborn boy she was always sneaking off to town to see. You know who I’m talking about… floppy hair, needed to learn how to use a comb. What was his name?”

Skye’s jaw tightened. “Ren,” he said, half-growling.

Ivain grinned. “That’s it. Somehow, I knew you’d remember.”

At seventeen, Taly had fancied herself in love with the son of a local butcher. She’d find any excuse to visit him, snatching up errands just to get into town. Skye hadhatedit. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t been the sole focus of her attention, and he’d stomped around for weeks, unable—or perhaps just unwilling—to understand why it hurt so damn much.

Of course, that wasn’t his only reason for wanting to kill the Lowborn. Taly was good at keeping secrets, but she’d let this one slip.

“I had it all planned,” Ivain went on. “The boy would come to pick her up, and I’d meet them on the steps. Polishing a sword or perhaps my battle axe—I was going to play it by ear depending on how much of a little shit we were dealing with. Naturally,” he said, gesturing at Skye, “you can see my problem.”

“That… I love her?” Skye asked, not liking where this was heading. “And will take good care of her? And that I’m not a little shit?”

“No,” Ivain said. “You’ve already seen my armory. And despite current travel restrictions, you’re still the heir to Ghislain, and I’d like to avoid making any threats that could be construed as treason. Taly certainly aimed high when she picked you.”

In the workshop, Ivain selected a sword from the wall. Forged from black metal, a thin, needle-like blade protruded from the mouth of a golden fox. Its twin tails formed the hilt.

“Sit down, son. Let’s have a talk.”

Skye arched a brow. “Ivain… did you really pull me in here to threaten me with a sword?”

“I did indeed, boy. You killed my speech and the opportunity to make a grown man piss his trousers, but this—” Ivain hefted the sword. “This part I’m keeping.”

No. No, they weren’t doing this.

“Goodbye, Ivain,” Skye said, turning for the door.

“I might still change my mind.”

Skye halted.

“Even youattemptingto morph is going to have me skating on thin ice with your mother. And you know how much I hate arguing with her.” Ivain was grinning like a devil. “Sit.”

He pointed at a stool with the tip of his blade.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Skye muttered. But he moved toward the stool anyway, settling in for what was sure to be alongmorning.

Ivain took a seat across from him, resting the sword across his lap, all casual menace. “You, young man, have been granted the privilege of spending time with my daughter. I expect you to treat her with respect and kindness because if you don’t, I’ll cut out your entrails and extract them through your nose.”

“That’s good,” Skye said. “I can tell you practiced.”

“Thank you. Now, try to look a bit more frightened.”

Chapter 19

Like much of the townhouse, the training hall was one of those rooms that used to be something else—re-purposed and quickly, as if someone had been trying to paper over their old life.

Once an opulent ballroom, the two-level atrium spanned nearly half the ground floor and first basement level. A grand staircase curled through the center, spilling down to what had once been an expansive dance floor, polished smooth by gliding feet and twirling waltzes. Now, it emptied into a sunken pit of sand, scarred by sparring matches and gouged by magic.

The tall arched windows, once dressed in velvet, were now shielded by blackout panels—functional, seamless, and cold against the gilded frames. Where rare pieces of art and lavish tapestries once hung, mirrored panels lined the walls, enchanted to project holographic adversaries.

In front of one of those mirrors, her brow furrowed in concentration, Aimee pulled and shaped the water whirling restlessly between her cupped palms. Behind her, chandeliers glittered, their light bouncing off the glass. This place had been built for glamour, not sweat and bruises. Yet here they both were.

The water in her hands gurgled and hissed—a soothing sound, a sign that the magic was content with her handling and ready to be formed. She rotated her palms around the blue orb, feeling the weight of it, the pull, as she coaxed it outward into a swirling, shimmering arc.

A water whip—one of the most basic spells. After months of practice, she could form it effortlessly.