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The same feeling as when her fire pricked her skin rose through her veins in that moment. For the first time all week, her power felt relaxed. Calm. It was unified with her being, rather than railing against it. Her body loosened, heart slowing, as the iron, engulfed in flames, lifted from the table, and glided into her awaiting palm.

Alora blinked, doubting what had just happened.

The High Prince walked slowly until he was between her and the table and relaxed back against it, folding his arms. “Now, take the dagger from your belt. Imagine the iron as such.”

Alora backed away. “You’re too close. What if I?—”

“You will not hurt me.” He said it so calmly that she believed him.

Pulling the blackened dagger from her belt, Alora studied the empty settings where jewels once sat. Completely focusing on the night-dark, waved blade covered in matte onyx whorls that weaved from both ends of the metal. The white stone glistened in the sun. Beautifully crafted despite the damage on the leatherhandle. In all honesty, she’d never owned something quite as exquisite. Something that was just hers.

A perfect reflection of her own self.

A deadly weapon with missing pieces.

The chunk of iron felt warm and steamed in her other palm as she gripped the hilt of the dagger. Her eyes flowed from one to the other, noting the details of the blade as she squinted her eyes, and the noises of camp quieted around her.

But it wasn’t her doing. She side-eyed the High Prince, knowing his magic was to thank.

Deepening a breath, she thought,If you would allow it, magic. Form this iron into the dagger.

Like warm honey flowing from a bucket, the steaming iron melted in white flames across her palm. Tendrils of silver streamed and pooled until it began to take on the form of a weapon. Its shape melded into a wave amongst the white glow. Swirls of molten vines crawled across the smooth surface. The metal itself changed properties until a leather-covered hilt and glistening white gem sparkled inside it.

A perfect replica.

Eldacar erupted in joyous clapping with a grin that covered his face and once again pushed his glasses up.

Shock wracked her body as she lifted the blades in front of her.

This … this wasn’tpossible.

Garrik’s grin was nothing short of wicked. “See what happens when you trust me?”

“You’re looking down at your feet again.” Thalon tapped Alora’s boot with the edge of a rune-covered golden sword and flicked it up with his wrist. “Your body follows your head. Eyes on me when you advance,” he instructed.

True.She was watching her feet. But more looking at the large shadow cascading from Thalon’s body in the sunlight.Barely noticeable, but enough to pull her focus and leave her falling flat on her ass a few times. Thalon always noticed. How could he not? And he took advantage of her slip of concentration every time.

Alora repositioned her feet to where Thalon had told her to at least twenty times in the last thirty minutes.

The smell of the lake and pine around them covered up the stench of sweat she desperately wanted to deny under her leather armor. The heat from her skin made them nearly unbearable to wear. But it was either sweat from the heat or wind up dead in battle. She chose the former.

Along with trembling knees and stiff fingers, her shoulders and upper back burned something fierce. But nothing compared to the unwavering heaviness of humiliation when the skills she thought she possessed were little in comparison to his. Apparently, her time with Rowlen offered little to aid her training now.

Thalon may have been a soft-spoken swords-master, with shining smiles and bulging muscles, but there in the arena …

She quivered.

The High Prince may be Death itself, but Thalon …

He executed justice, carrying an ancient wrath onto battlefields.

The kind of warrior who would slaughter ten thousand and then grieve their souls after. A solid killer of strength and ruin on the outside and a kind-hearted, protective soul within.

Alora rotated her neck until cracks released pressure on her spine. As it turned out, her strikes were sloppy and easily anticipated by her enemy. Her calculated movements and foot positions were amateur at best. Compared to Thalon, anyway. She could certainly win a fight against skilled fighters, but against him? The chance of survival was less than nil.

Still, he offered reassuring words of praise, encouraged movements and actions that could be used to overpower and eliminate an enemy. Plus, he corrected learned mistakes that could render her killed.

“Again,” Thalon said with a single nod.