At the training complex, Bryn and I split. Her schedule had her in the aquatics wing—an endurance drill where cadets went underwater carrying weighted scales and held their breath until their lungs screamed. Whoever surfaced last scored highest. She cracked her knuckles and jogged off without a backward glance. I wished her luck.
Bryn had no magic, but she had superhuman strength—the Rupture’s gift, and the reason Greycrown had accepted her. She didn’t need an ex-girlfriend or a mage to lift her station. My friend could grip the front bumper of a military vehicle and hoist the wheels off the ground. I’d watched her do it in training, casual as picking up a chair.
Vossmark Training Center dominated the academy grounds: two stories of reinforced concrete, arched windows along the upper level, wide bay doors below opening onto the training yards. Inside, the corridors split into three wings: close-quarters combat to the west, weapons and armory to the north, magical instruction tothe east. Out back, the yards ran in a grid of sand pits, obstacle courses, and sparring rings.
My class met in the east wing’s outdoor yard—open air, packed earth underfoot, spell-dampening wards carved into the surrounding fences.
The notice had come through on my tablet that morning: a magic class added to my curriculum. Effective immediately.
My stomach dropped when I read it. A low, persistent buzz of anxiety burrowed behind my ribs and wouldn’t leave. I’d hoped magic instruction would come later—when I was ready, when I understood the demon’s power better.
The evidence wasn’t subtle. The shockwave I’d thrown at Slade and his crew in the barracks. The force that rose when Kevin’s gang pinned me at the camp town. Both times, the power only surfaced when the demon decided to let it. It chose the moments. It held the tap. I was just the pipe it ran through.
In a classroom, with an instructor evaluating and cadets measuring themselves against me, the demon wouldn’t cooperate. It wanted me begging for its help, trading pieces of my will for power.
I’d rather fail every assessment and look bad in front of the whole class than cave in to its game.
30
MAX
Istepped into the class. The gray sky pressed low overhead. The air tasted of ozone, residue from yesterday’s spellwork still clinging to the packed earth.
Inside stood about forty cadets, all in first-year fatigues. More women than men, which tracked: magic ran stronger in female bloodlines, or so the books said.
I recognized a few faces. The most distinct was Delia’s.
She’d hung off Drakken’s arm at the Broken Drum last night, sliding her hand along his thigh while he ignored her in favor of glaring at me. Up close, she was still striking—blond hair swept back, corn-blue eyes lined with precise black kohl, lips full and ripe. She carried herself with the air of a woman who believed proximity to power was the same as possessing it. Drakken’s golden aura gilded her, and she wore it like a crown she thought she’d earned.
I had zero makeup. Even if I knew how to apply it, I wouldn’t bother.
You should not feel threatened by that blonde, or anyone,the demon tutored, as if it were a relationship guru.
I wasn’t threatened. I just didn’t like her. But I wasn’t about to argue with the creature. Zero engagement. It was more dangerous than any force in this yard, and I wasn’t fool enough to let it lure me into conversation.
“Why is Scarecrow here?” Delia hissed, her gaze raking over me before cutting to Instructor Greer.
“Scarecrow?” I arched an eyebrow. “We’re doing nicknames now? Should I come up with one for you, or would you prefer I let the class vote?”
Another dig at my height. But I wasn’t bony anymore. I’d filled out faster than I’d thought possible, which left me feeling gleeful and guilty in the same breath. Every night before sleep, the heirs’ faces would visit me behind my eyelids, and then Missy’s would replace them—small frame, hollowed cheeks, helpless eyes.
Little viper, hang in there a little longer,I murmured silently, hoping the message could somehow reach her across hundreds of miles.I’ll come for you. Soon.
Instructor Greer was a middle-aged mage who specialized in kinetic magic and spell weaving. Brown eyes that missed nothing. Chestnut hair pinned in a sleek, no-nonsense twist. She wore a mage’s garb—tunic and trousers in muted earth green, fitted close for movement.
“The new student is Max Morning, not Scarecrow,” she chided. “If you have an issue with her presence in myclass, Delia, take it up with Prince Drakken, whom I believe you’re friendly with.”
The emphasis on “friendly” was surgical. Someone snickered. Delia shot daggers in their direction.
Wait—did Drakken assign me to this class? He either wanted to test what I could do since the Sorting had backfired on him, or he needed evidence to toss me from his academy.
“I’m his girlfriend, not just ‘friendly with,’” Delia said, turning up her nose. “And my grandfather was a general before he retired with honors. I’m from the bloodline of the founders of the Zodiac Covenant.”
Impressive résumé. But what could she actually do?
“The founding father is Prince Aelindor,” Instructor Greer said, moving on. “The other three heirs joined him later. Perhaps we should revisit the history of the four kingdoms at some point.”
“I’d love to,” I said eagerly. “Always been a history buff.”