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'The threehumantypes,' he clarified. 'And you are all three.'

A shiver ran down Fyia's spine. She'd never considered how many types of magic there could be. Had never thought that the witches of the Fae'ch—magic touched humans—had magic that was somehow different to the magic of the fae, or that her Cruaxee was different to either of those things. Magic was magic … it just appeared in different ways. Or at least, that was what she'd thought. Although, that could still be true … there was just so much she didn't know.

'And you?' she asked. Apparently he had a Cruaxee, so maybe he was magic- and fire-touched too.

'No,' he said pointedly.

She wasn't sure if she'd insulted him, so turned back to the mural. 'Whoever painted it was very skilled.'

'Indeed,' he said. 'If you will take a seat.' He held out his arm towards the only furniture—a pair of chairs in the middle of the room, directly under the dragon scale above.

They faced each other, and as they sat, their knees became uncomfortably close … so close, she had to take care not to brush against him.

'What will you teach me?' she asked.

'Yes, we didn't specify, did we,' he said, his tone clipped.

After the Queen Mother had suggested Fyia seek help, she'd left them alone in the kitchen. Cal had made to leave, but Fyia had said, 'Please,' and the word had stopped him dead. He'd turned to look at her, and she'd made her plea. 'Imagine you'd lived my life, knowing you were magical, but with no knowledge of what that meant. With no one to turn to. No books. Only mistrustful glances and deep suspicions.'

Cal had stayed silent for a moment, then turned his gaze to the ceiling, as though asking the Gods to give him strength. 'Meet me in the library at noon,' was all he'd said.

Fyia waited for the King to speak, studying his face as he avoided her gaze. Was that because he disliked her? Or maybe he was indifferent, other matters occupying his mind. His nose was straight, his cheekbones high, his jaw strong and still covered with stubble. His hair was dark, and getting a little too long—he'd run his hand through it more than once since she'd arrived in the library—and whatever thoughts held his mind also creased his forehead.

He wore dark clothes—as befitted the King of the Black Hoods—made from soft, stained leather, with small golden clasps securing his long doublet. Clasps that, if she were not mistaken, had been fashioned in the shape of dragon claws. The fabric fit him snugly, so Fyia could make out the muscular lines of his arms, broad shoulders and torso.

She looked back to his face, and found him watching her. She hadn't registered the movement of his head, apparently too pre-occupied by the shape of him to notice …

She held his gaze, refusing to look away as it became uncomfortable, intense, intimidating. It was a purposeful move on his part, and she tipped her head to one side in silent question.

Cal snapped his eyes away and took a deep breath. 'We will start with the basics,' he said. 'Feeling your Cruaxee, calling them, bonding with them, sending them away …'

'I know how to do all of those things,' said Fyia. Or at least, she thought she did. She'd never had instruction, so perhaps her way and his were not the same.

'Then why did you not call off your wolves in the tavern last night?' he said hotly.

'Because you lied to me …'

'I did no such thing.'

'You withheld your name, and changed your eye color, with the express purpose of hiding your identity!'

'Even when it became clear I meant you no harm,' he said, 'you still refused to stand them down.' He ran his hand through his hair once more, looking as though he might rip whole chunks from his scalp.

'Because I didn't feel safe, and then a bear roared in my head, and then I blacked out. Was that … the Queen Mother said you touched me with your Cruaxee? Is that why I heard her? Is the bear yours?'

Cal stood abruptly and turned towards a window. 'Yes,' he said quietly. 'She is mine.'

'She doesn't seem to like me,' said Fyia, attempting to lighten the mood, but her words fell flat.

'She barely tolerates me most of the time. She did not appreciate my using her to touch you.'

'What does that even mean?'

'It's … complicated,' said Cal, his eyes still looking out of the window.

'Is it dangerous?' said Fyia. She stood and moved to the opposite window, filling with frustration. 'Could your bear hurt me? When I blacked out, is that because she attacked me?'

'My bear is chafing against the touch, that is all.'