Page 6

6

Rhea

P ast the door, I find myself inside a room just big enough to fit a small square table and two chairs. A large candelabra hangs above, casting the room in dancing shadows. The walls are made of dark stone, and a second door stands on the other side. A sliver of warm light shines under it, much more inviting than this… closet.

High Prime Stormsong takes one of the chairs and gestures toward the one across. His expression is unreadable. If our encounter on the balcony built any rapport between us, it’s impossible to tell.

I sit, keeping my hands on my lap, hidden as I pick at a hangnail.

“Singer…?” he says, voice laced with ice.

“Wyndward,” I answer.

“Singer Wyndward, put your hands on the table. Like this.”

He rests his forearms on the wooden surface, then holds his hands up as if he’s holding a large ball. When I copy the pose, it looks as if we’re both holding the same ball. My fingers are so close to his, they almost touch. I stare at his hands to avoid his glacier gaze. They are large and callused. The fingernails are trimmed short. There’s a scattering of dark hairs that peeks from under the cuffs of his shirt.

“I want you to slowly release your skill,” he says, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine.

I inhale deeply to hide my reaction and nod. It’s a duel then. I’ve never participated in one. The Academy forbade them, and I always followed the rules as did most of my mates. Few were foolish enough to risk getting thrown out and never making it here.

But why a duel? I could never beat this man, so what’s the point of the test? He’s bonded, while I only have my own Embernia given skill—yet unenhanced, capable of no more than a summer breeze, even if, in comparison to other Singers, I’m considered powerful. There’s only one possible explanation. He wants to measure my strength, then compare it to Phoebe’s and Gilbert’s.

Slowly, as he indicated, I release my skill. Small air currents sprout from my fingertips, whirling into tight spirals. High Prime Stormsong’s own power jumps to capture mine, connecting, forming a pathway between us, a whirlwind caged between our hands. His blue eyes glow lightly, speaking of his bond with Fragor.

“Is that it?” he asks as if disappointed.

“No. There’s more.” I smile and go up a few notches.

“Better,” he says, though he sounds unimpressed.

I push more power out. The whirlwind grows, blowing back the High Prime’s silken locks. Goddess! He’s achingly beautiful under the blue-white light from his eyes. Being this close to him, playing this little game, has my heart pounding.

“Good,” he says as if I’ve reached some sort of acceptable threshold, except I still have more.

Inhaling, I dig deeper and push further. The whirlwind doubles in size, throbbing like a heart. We lean back.

One of High Prime Stormsong’s eyebrows goes up. Satisfaction swells inside of me. He’s impressed, right? He thinks that?—

Pain bursts in the back of my eyes, sharp as knives. A grunt escapes me. The whirlwind grows even larger and wobbles on its axis. My hair flies backward as I squint to protect my eyes. Wyrm’s rot! Is this supposed to happen?

“What in all the levels of hell?” High Prime Stormsong says.

Judging by his reaction, this is definitely not normal.

He tries to pull his hands back, break the connection, but seems unable to do it. “Disengage, Singer Wyndward,” he orders.

“I can’t,” I say, after trying and failing.

My powers seem to be feeding off his, locked into place, and I’m not the only one. He’s the one with more experience here. He should know what to do.

The whirlwind continues growing. The candelabra rattles above. We stand. He kicks the table out of the way. It crashes against the wall.

“What are you doing?!” he demands, hair standing on end, eyes narrowed.

“Nothing. Just what you told me.”

“This isn’t… supposed to happen,” he says between clenched teeth, trying hard to break the spell.

“I figured.”

“Pull.” He throws his weight back, physically pulling away.

I don’t see how that will help, but I do as he says. The whirlwind only grows bigger but then begins shrinking.

“Oh, thank Heratrix!” I exclaim.

“I wouldn’t celebrate just yet, Singer.”

As the whirlwind shrinks, we’re physically pulled together, our feet sliding over the floor. He’s only a few inches away from me, a thin layer of energy glowing brightly between our hands. What is this? Heat builds between us, growing uncomfortable. Shit! We’re going to end up melding with each other. Maybe this is why duels are forbidden at the Academy.

My gaze locks with his. A jolt goes up my spine, a force that seems to twist itself around each of my vertebra, like ivy climbing a trellis. He grunts and winces, back straightening. Something tells me the same thing is happening to him.

Teeth bare, he resists the force trying to bring us together. His closeness is almost as unbearable as the strange energy pulsing between us. My skin pebbles. My gaze roves over his face, pausing at his lips.

The fact that the urge to kiss him—a man I just met (even if I plan to seduce him)—assaults me at a scary-as-fuck moment like this is a clear sign that I’m certifiably insane.

He seems to notice the effect he’s having on me. His blue eyes fall to my lips in turn. Oh! Even though he’s been pretending, it’s obvious he hasn’t been able to turn off the attraction that sparked between us on that balcony.

He jerks his head to one side. “Trying to pull away isn’t working, Singer,” he growls through the pain and chaotic uncertainty of this moment. “Brace yourself. It’s time to try something different.”

“Wait, what are you going to?—?”

High Prime Stormsong stops fighting against the energy flowing between us and steps forward. The motion makes me lose my balance. I stumble backward. As I begin to fall, he interlaces his fingers with mine and takes two more steps forward, quickly shoving me against the wall to prevent my fall.

The glow that seems to fuse our joint hands lessens. The pain twisting its way into my spine diminishes. We both breathe out, our shoulders dropping a couple of inches in relief.

Blinding pure-white light explodes between our palms. I close my eyes against the piercing force, gritting my teeth in a growl. The force expands with a violent blast that sends the High Prime flying across the small room—the connection finally broken.

— Wyrm’s rot! What’s wrong with her?

His wayward thought floods my mind as his back hits the opposite wall, and we slide to the floor in unison, heads lolling. My eyes roll back, and I black out.

* * *

“Singer Wyndward. Singer Wyndward, wake up!” Someone slaps my cheek.

My eyes blink open.

High Prime Stormsong crouches in front of me, dark eyebrows knitted together, pupils blown so big only a small rim of blue remains.

I swallow thickly and glance around. The table and chairs are back in place. He even smoothed his hair down.

“Come on, stand.” He grabs me by the arms and lifts me up.

Damn, he’s strong!

I wobble a bit.

“Can you walk on your own?”

“Of course.” I push him away. Sniffling, I run stiff fingers through my hair and smooth it down.

He watches me from under a deep frown. Distrust swims in his gaze.

Wyrm’s rot! What is wrong with her? The thought he had just moments ago plays back inside my mind.

“Your test is over,” he says. “Exit through the back of the room and wait there.”

I try to think of something to say, something that will save me, but I don’t even know what happened. I have no idea what combination of words can make this day have the outcome I’ve wished for so long. But maybe I’ve already done enough damage, and the best thing to do is keep my mouth shut, so I straighten, nod once, and do as he says.

I enter another waiting area with a long wooden bench. I bury my face in my hand and scrub vigorously, massaging circles into my temples.

Please, choose me. Please, please .

The mantra repeats over and over inside my head. If I’m not chosen, I don’t think I’ll be able to go on. Bitterness will eat me alive. I will not, cannot, serve as a lowly Claw, bowing to those who soared higher. I know there are many ways to serve Embernia, know that I could climb up the ranks to become a general for our ground troops in the Land Order , but I have so much more to give to my country. So much more.

Please, Heratrix, whisper my name in his ear. Let him choose me.

My heart is lodged in my throat as I wait. When the door opens, I spring up, straightening my back. Gilbert Drifttown comes in. He looks smug and struts about the room as if he’s already been chosen.

Has he?!

No. High Prime Stormsong wouldn’t have told him yet.

“Looking kinda sickly there, Wyndward. Didn’t go well for you?” he says, stopping in front of me and looking down his nose, surely trying to make himself feel bigger.

I don’t reply. He’s never been worth my time, much less now.

He sneers, mouth twisting with sardonic delight, and goes back to pacing. He’s good at posturing, and it has taken him this far. I’d love to see him as a Claw while Phoebe and I command him to polish our boots. But what if the High Prime doesn’t choose Phoebe? My stomach sours at the thought. Training with this fool would be about as fun as searing my own eyeball with a hot poker. I can only hope it doesn’t come to that. All I know is I won’t be polishing anyone’s boots if I don’t make it.

At last, the door opens again and High Prime Stormsong appears at the threshold. Phoebe isn’t with him.

Oh, shit!

Gilbert grins hugely.

“Come with me, please,” he says. “Singer Breezehart is waiting.”

Oh, he hasn’t decided yet. Gilbert’s grin turns upside down.

Back in the large chamber, Phoebe stands with her hands interlaced in front of her. Nothing about her expression betrays satisfaction or disappointment, no hint to indicate how her duel went.

“Good luck,” I mouth as I stand next to her.

She mouths it back.

Gilbert takes his spot by my side. We stand shoulder to shoulder as the High Prime appraises us.

“Singer Drifttown, you are chosen. Please, go back to Commander Voltguard.”

“Yes, sir,” Gilbert says with such gusto that I suspect his head will grow to three times its size before the night is over.

My stomach clenches. It should have been Phoebe and me, and now… I scan High Prime Stormsong’s face, hoping to cleave the next name from his features. The temptation to read his thoughts assaults me. A chilled horror floods my chest. I’m not a Weaver. I’m not.

His gaze locks with mine. My breath freezes. I don’t know him, but something behind his gaze suggests doubt… like he wants to choose me, but he isn’t sure it’s the right thing to do.

Heratrix, whisper my name in his ear, please. Don’t desert me now.

High Prime Stormsong lowers his eyes to the floor. He’s quiet for a long time. A cold line of dread descends along my spine. I’m done for.

Wyrm’s rot! What is wrong with her?

He sensed it. I’m a broken liar, pretending to be a perfect candidate deserving of the ultimate honor for an Embernia citizen: a dragon. When in reality, I’m considered a plague, a danger, an elemental with two abilities, a freak of nature who should have been cleansed.

“Singer Wyndward, you are chosen. Please, go back to Commander Voltguard.”

My heart leaps, and the relief that floods me feels like a life-giving elixir after a long drought. I nearly cheer and have to shrink inside my robe, tightening every muscle to contain myself. I don’t think of Phoebe until I’m halfway to the Commander.

Heavy of heart, I glance back.

High Prime Stormsong is resting a hand on her shoulder, telling her something. There is tenderness in his demeanor, something that strikes me as unexpected. It’s there and gone before I can fully register the change in his expression, the way the hard lines around his mouth and eyes had softened.

Phoebe smiles and nods gratefully, then heads toward the changing room. Our eyes meet. She offers me a smile, too. She seems genuinely happy for me. I feel genuinely sorry she’s not coming.

High Prime Stormsong starts in my direction. I look straight ahead, hurry my step and join the Commander and the other chosen.

Later tonight, there will be a different kind of choosing. A dragon will stake his claim on me.