Months go by. Pacing in the secret room of my quarters with tome in hand, I’m still on a mad search for Sefene, since Boeru won’t sit still without her.

  “You follow the wrong scent…” Boeru’s words still haunt me. I’m not sure if he’s been permanently skewed by Scorius’ Shade’s Milk, or whether she’s actually not in the afterlife. I rack my brain, reading the tome detailing spirit whereabouts. They’ve been known on occasion to visit the dark ocean, but something about it isn’t quite right. Staring at the Seal that’s been closed off by Dane wards since the investigation, I’m tempted to go back, even if trying to crack it might be like leaping off a cliff.

  I think back to that day when the Danes cast their spells while peering into the cracked Seal. Whether or not Relias found out about my trip to the afterlife is unknown, but what I can say for sure is… he didn’t tell anyone about it, otherwise I’d be in a frozen box right now.

  No word of trial or treason gave me and my marked ample time to play this sanctum game, all with Kane in the front of my mind. We sorted all of Izfael’s artillery in my possession, and all the oaths of the pledges who live in these quarters alongside us.

  The system we put in place is as follows—challenge and win against a notable named cadet, advance in either magi or combat in some notable way deemed fit by the marked, and gain twenty merits… only then does one win a piece of Izfael’s treasure. Otherwise, we’d be the foolish first years waving around shiny toys with no clue on how to wield them.

  I’m closest to the prize. I have six challenge wins under my belt, one loss, most of them not initiated by me. Turns out there’s a handful of headstrong personalities trying to make a name for themselves. You’d think a story of rank-transcending lightning would’ve been enough to stave them all off. Well, apparently not. I refused to use that power again though. Last thing I need is to make a mess of the Elshard arena, especially with the war-tutors watching so closely since that day.

  My advanced gryphon riding earned me a fair share of merits—as has been the same for the rest of my marked. Once we all got over the initial fears of riding, turns out flying in formations can be exhilarating. After hours we’d practice every week or so, depending on Tutor Mathis’ mood. Then there’s Battle Formations class… best way to earn group merits hands down. We’ve held against mage barrages, horse charges, and even a Lacor lieutenant in those summoned scenarios. It felt good to operate as a team in every instance. And, truthfully, there was a sense of Miria pride in toppling the lieutenant. Even if it was a training exercise, the rest of the class felt it too.

  Still, there have been drawbacks. No donor will heed my challenges. Whenever we fight, there’s no rider perched above us. It would be demoralizing as all hell if not for the arena shouting our names. Misty is a crowd-favorite. I swear she belongs in Rhylock. Getting smashed in the face with a fist-weapon—face bloodied—only to spin into a wind-propelled counterattack of high kicks and sword slashes… that’s entertainment. Her bloody smile is etched into my brain. No donors means no clout in the upper tiers though. It’s a punch to the gut thinking I may never find Kane up there.

  They only show for other up-and-comers—Broggen, Fiora, Mal—the new seederborn—and others I’d rather not name. But for me and my marked? Nothing. No one. A part of me wonders if Scorius has pull in the castle tier, since I haven’t seen him in all this time.

  My tenure at Elshard has been anything but ordinary, as everyone loves to remind me. I’m worried sick I won’t graduate year one or pass glass rank without my Prominent’s blessing. A vise of guilt grips my chest every morning I don’t show to his class. But today isn’t about me.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  “Hale, it’s time,” Jurso’s voice peeks through the secret door.

  “Coming.” I strap Spellglass to my back and shove my chain dagger into its sheath, then get ready for whatever this is all about.

  The stone door rolls open when I touch the handle, and I walk out the layers of my quarters straight to Layla’s. She’s sitting hunched on the bench opposite her bed in the fanciest attire I’ve ever seen her in. Silky hair rests over light-blue pauldrons that match her eyes, and her black-gold breastplate is woven so finely it looks like a rug.

  “You know you guys don’t have to come. It’s a damn off-day, for gods’ sake,” Layla says, polishing her shield.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Lay.” I plop on her bed opposite her, spreading my arms so she can see I dressed up too. Everyone from high society loves to have their robes intertwined with their armor. It’s somewhat of an Elshard spectacle, so I figured I’d bite for a day.

  Once she finally looks up, she blows air through her lips in an unexpected laugh.

  “What?” I laugh with her.

  “You look ridiculous.” She laughs louder.

  “I do, don’t I?”

  “Ah. Thanks for that. I needed it.” She stands and tests the grip of her mighty shield.

  “Hah. Remember the time Jackson put on House Mother’s robes and started smacking her whip about? That’s what I feel like right now… playing dress up.”

  “He got so many lashings that day, his ass looked like burnt toast,” Layla huffs.

  “The good ‘ol days.”

  “Uh huh.” She runs her finger over the scar leading to her chin.

  “So, any idea what this is all about?” I ask.

  “Oh you never know with this gods-damn mysterious Prominent of mine. Eyonasis the Great. Ask her a question, get a question in return. Riddles upon riddles with no pointing toward mythos or anything,” Layla says.

  “Like you’d read it anyway,” I scoff.

  “That’s what I have you for, guide.”

  “Mhm.”

  Layla takes a deep breath. “She probably just wants to showcase the magi-less grunts she was able to whip into formation. We’re front-line fodder after all, right? And that’s if we’re lucky. Otherwise, we’ll just rot as city guards in tier two.”

  “Lay, what did I say? I’m not going anywhere without you. We ascend together.”

  “I’ll just hold the team back.” She flashes a sad smile. “I’d sooner die than become a liability.”

  “Hey!” Jurso busts in and points to the skylight. “Doesn’t this thing start four hours after dawn?”

  “I suppose it does.” Layla slaps her shield, and I hop to my feet.

  “We’ve got your back, Lay, for whatever it is your crazy Prominent has in store.”

  The lot of us meet at the front of our quarters. Marked, pledges, and all. We’re in classic Elshard fashion, and I suddenly don’t feel so ridiculous. In fact, the looking glass makes us appear quite regal. My dagger chain hanging over one shoulder, sword hilt sticking up over my neck, hair freshly washed. The only thing missing is Boeru’s curious maw peeking out. But I’ll win him back.

  “To Elshard?” Layla says, looking over her shoulder.

  “To Elshard.” Rogo pounds his fists together. “And if this bitch Prominent of yours is all parade theater, I’m switching you to mine. You’ll learn how to regulate spice and break bones. Yeah?”

  “Hmph.” Lay straps her shield to her back and awaits the pledges to open the grand doors leading to the Sivus halls.

  As we walk with Layla at the head, cadets moseying around on their off-day feel compelled to adjust their posture.

  “Hey, hey, Dragonborn,” one chubby cadet salutes.

  Others nod, whispering to one each other as we round our old quarters. There’s still some saltiness that we progressed so quickly, but today we’re going to own it, for Lay.

  As the brisk air fights through the large Sivus doors in front of us, I wonder if this is the iciest temperature I’ve ever experienced. Sub-tier had its cold snaps, but this is crazy.

  Krchk!

  The iron doors unlock, and small white flurries spiral inside as we’re beckoned by assistants to get the hell out.

  “Was wondering what that white film was on the skylight.” Jurso holds out his hand.

  “What sorcery is this?” Rogo holds up his palm. “Did a thousand cold mages come together to play a prank?”

  “Or one Head Magus,” Misty suggests.

  I smile. “Snowfall. If any of you fools would read a tome once in a while, you’d know this is common in the cold months of old Miria.”

  “Boo.” Rogo gives me a thumbs down.

  “The Elden mages paid great attention to detail when they made the skies, Boe. Come and see,” I call to him, but he’s still far away.

  We follow Layla’s lead into Elshard and all the way to the Big Wing. Some of the marked say they thought Prominent Eyo taught in the Sharp Wing, but Layla lets them know she organized something in the big Battle Formations auditorium today.

  “You nervous?” Jurso asks.

  “For what? She has no reason to be.” Misty nudges her. “I’ve caught this pile of muscle doing stances in her sleep.”

  “That’s what that noise was?” Rogo questions.

  “Quite terrifying,” Filip—the tall pledge with crooked teeth—chimes in.

  “It’s lulling once you get used to it,” Jenny says.

  I can’t help but laugh. As soon as those Battle Formations doors open, however, my smile drops entirely. The auditorium is filled with straight-faced cadets piled all along the sides, and in the center, a woman with a long lock of black hair framing her face and shoulder muscles of hardened lines stares on with a shadow of a smirk.

  “A ceremonious welcome for Layla Barristan.”

  Low claps resound as we enter.

  “Prominent Eyo.” Layla bows as Eyo motions for the rest of us to take our places in the audience—front row.

  “Step forward,” she says.

  “Why is this so serious?” Jurso whispers.

  “Shh!” Misty slaps him.

  My brow furrows when mage cadets step out from behind each of the four pillars, surrounding Layla and the Prominent standing opposite one another.

  “Cadets of Elshard. Today marks the half-year ceremony of my class. I invite all supporters and interested parties to my spectacle, and reveal to the first years a matter of critical importance. It was I who claimed the lineage tomes. I kept them from you for these months. Though my actions were unethical, they were carried out for good reason.”

  All of us look at one another as Eyo reveals what she’s hiding behind her back.

  She holds the tome up for all to see its reflection, then opens it to a bookmarked page. “The Barristan family—”

  Misty nearly drools. “So, that’s where it’s been.”

  I remember their bullet points all over again. Defenders of royalty, always.

  “Hanley Barristan, protector of the third-watch battalion in the early stage war. Namely, guardian of High Bishop Watsel. She was tasked with keeping the most active strategic mind alive, and did so with grace.” Eyo flips the page, and I can tell Layla is growing uncomfortable. It’s cruel to read ancestry to those of us discarded to the sub-tier. “Trevor Barristan, overt sentry of the Falling Tides—an elite batch of riders tasked with protecting the flight general. Trevor guarded valiantly during mid-stage war. Kiley Barristan—”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Prominent,” Layla interrupts her with a cracked voice, pained smile flashing over her face.

  I want to run out there and stand by her side, like she did for me in the arena.

  “Why would a lineage that rejected me be relevant?”

  Eyo slaps the tome shut, holding her shadow of a smirk. “I’m so glad you ask. Cadet Layla Barristan,” she raises her voice absurdly loud. “Do you know why I summoned you this day?”

  Layla straightens, shaking her head.

  “Good. All the better for our audience.” Prominent Eyo spins on her heel—flowing robes sweeping the ground—and steps to a dais away from the center of the auditorium. She snaps her finger and two robed alt-magic users raise their arms to summon a familiar flat-top mountain summit. Layla remains in the middle, the four mages standing dutifully at the corners, and Prominent Eyo towering tall above them on a thin-stretched stone outlay twenty feet away.

  “I, War-tutor Emilent Eyonasis, am charged with the delicate task of molding our magi barren. Each case requires care and determination in discovering the cadet’s history, proclivities, the like. And now, on the half-year mark, I present to you my findings.”

  Layla sighs, eyeing each of the mages.

  I can’t help but clench the ledge of this wooden boat I’ve been summoned to… the one simply floating in the air around the summit. I’d use Dovesier to leap onto the center mountain if it wouldn’t embarrass her half to death. This is cruel. Every part of it. She’s been wondering what the point of her Prominent classes are all this time…

  “Layla Barristan!” Eyo’s voice knocks me out of my thoughts. “Today is just another class for you.” She grins at Lay.

  “Fine,” she calls back, drawing her shield.

  “Margris,” Eyo calls to the left mage closest to us. “Reveal your rank.”

  “Iron!”

  “Very good, Margris. Attack!”

  The entire boat gasps, as do the others floating around the mountaintop. Layla’s face scrunches.

  Is Eyo’s purpose to humiliate each and every barren?

  The audience holds their breath as the fire elements circle around the mage—embers turning into full tongues of flame, all centering into an orb a mere foot away from the mage’s chest.

  Layla looks uncomfortable, bracing tensely. As if we haven’t been tested enough. A part of me wants to call out this dragonshit for what it is, but another begs me to keep quiet. The marked and pledged look to me in disgust.

  “Are we really about to watch our guard get pummeled by a bunch of magi?” Rogo does his best to whisper. “Let’s crash this thing, Hale.”

  “Wait.” I narrow my eyes.

  I’ve always had this hunch… the way she could just lay in the healing chambers and still bleed… the amount of energy Jurso would have to expel to close a wound…

  “Fire!” Eyo drops her hand, and the culminating fireball slings forward. “Layla!” she shouts. “Stone stance!”

  Layla cocks her head to her Prominent in confusion, then snaps back to the incoming fireball—tongues of flame slithering through it, mass increasing by the second. I can read her like a book. Her thoughts of leaping out of the way flee. But this is suicide. Iron is a rank over glass. She’s going to need a team of bliss users to stop whatever wound this makes.

  My nails scratch against the wood.

  The entire audience holds their breath.

  “Rrr!” She stomps down with perfect form. Left leg pressed forward, arm flexed as her fist grips the shield strap.

  Fhssss!

  The fire engulfs her, and my legs go weak. Our eyes are all wide as we lean over the ledge to try and see past the smoke.

  “The flames a mage can conjure… a Barristan can dispel in a snap.” Eyo raises her chin, and we all see it.

  Layla still breathes. Unmoved. Unscathed.

  “All she needs is the mastery of an art once lost.” Eyo’s smugness is justified.

  Goosebumps line my arms as Jurso and I turn to one another. He’s feeling the same elation I am. She just blocked a spell one rank higher. Her. A barren—the one getting knocked on her ass time and time again.

  “Whoo!”

  Everyone cheers at the display, but Eyo holds up her hand.

  “Hectorford. Rank.”

  “Onyx!” he shouts.

  “Proceed,” she yells.

  I shut up immediately and grab Jurso’s shirt on one side and Rogo’s on the other. Icy winds echo the path we took to get here, and I’m confused that Layla hasn’t broken stance. Turn around.

  “Treelee, rank!” Eyo calls as Hectorford twists his icy reins into a galaxy of white.

  “Gold!”

  “Excellent. Attack!” Eyo drops her arm, then straightens, analyzing the budding magi.

  Ssss! The icy orb hisses through the air, seconds away from crashing over Lay’s back.

  “Layla! Flag stance!”

  In a mechanical display of precision, Lay stomps to full height, giving her shoulder to the incoming projectile. The auditorium is once again all leaning over the edge as she takes in a massive inhale, holding the shield straight in front of her.

  I never understood flag stance. Such wasted motion only to go limp in the arms.

  As she swings her shield toward the ice and loosens her rigidness, a small storm crashes into her shield. All I hear is the scratching of ice against metal, all I feel is the remnants of hail prickling my face. The others lift their arms over their faces, but not me.

  I won’t miss a second of this.

  Her shield bounces in her grip, and she moves with it as she was trained to.

  “What in gods is this, Boeru?” I ask.

  “The ancestry of great resistance,” his voice swirls from somewhere far away. “Never let it go to waste.”

  More goosebumps renew my excitement, only to be doubled when I see Layla unharmed after a spell from an onyx rank.

  “In-fucking-possible.” Misty jumps onto the ledge as the mist dies down. “Go Layla!” she shouts, using her hands to amplify the sound.

  “The other one is gold, Hale.” Jurs grits his teeth.

  When I see a spark of lightning, my hearing reduces to a high-pitched ring. Flashes of Tyros and Izfael blasting into nothingness sends a pang of fear straight into my heart.

  Relax, Hale. That mage doesn’t possess the dark. She isn’t a dragonborn. Lay will be fine.

  Zzzt!

  A giant yellow spark singes the ground at the gold rank’s feet.

  “Layla! Tree stance, now!”

  Layla clenches her jaw when noticing the mage’s lightning is out of her control. She twists her body as much as possible, then stomps her feet heel-to-heel, pumping her shield to the sky with both fists. I always thought tree stance was for overhead projectiles.

  She winces when a bolt strikes horizontally, my whole body clenching to watch. The bolt zags straight for her chest—three ranks above our own.

  Zzzzt!

  Zzzzt!

  Zzzzt!

  The lightning breaks into a swarm trying to fry her, but pulses off what appears to be an invisible wall—smoke kicking up every failed zap. Her arms shake as she does her best to hold the stance.

  “This is madness, Hale.” Jurso’s jaw hangs open.

  “The best kind.” I smile to see her unharmed.

  Her arms and legs quiver from the blast, but I see no blood, no sign of being struck.

  “Impressive, Ms. Barristan.” Eyo claps, allowing the audience to finally cheer. “Most of my resistant cadets don’t make it past the ice. However, my ceremonies wouldn’t be complete without a little humility.” She snaps her finger for the fourth mage. “Jirel. Rank!”

  “Steel,” he says menacingly.

  My breath gets caught in my throat. Thinking of Izfael’s lethality makes me worry for her. Steel ranks are the last level of this sanctum. They’re every bit ready for war. How in hell is Layla going to survive this?

  I look up to her Prominent. I can’t tell if she has safeguards in place to stop the attacks if they get out of control, or whether she’ll just let the fire roll.

  Cadets die all the time…

  Jirel extends his jaw as if something invisible stabs him. His mouth and eyes leak black mist like a fountain of steam.

  “Uh, Hale.” Rogo shakes my shoulder. “We can’t let this…”

  The ocean of warring dark flows out of Jirel in the worst way—hands clawed, muscles flexed.

  Layla still quivers from her last block. Her arms must be jelly after withstanding a strike like that. With every part of me I want to call for her to yield. But then I’d be no better than her on my first day with the Danes. This is her moment.

  Whispering wisps rush past us at lightning speeds, darkening the entire summoned sky. The boats shake and creak midair. The power of this steel rank is literally messing with the flow of two alt-magic tutors.

  “Layla!” Eyo calls, her arm raised high.

  The black matter rushes to Jirel in one maddening screech, syphoning into a black, headless snake he holds by the tail, creating the worst weapon in the world for any of us from the sub-tier—a whip. It’s a whip exploding with dark power.

  “Hear me, cadet!” Prominent closes her raised fist. “You are a breaker of the dark! Hammer stance!”

  Layla screams right back at the mage about to lash her into oblivion. She plants her feet hip-width apart and jams her shield overhead before crashing it into the ground.

  Wtshh!

  Wtshh!

  The whip explodes into hundreds of tiny tendrils with every lash, curling over a barrier Layla’s stance created and sizzling to dust. Layla grunts, fighting the pain. The lashes come at blinding speed, one after the other, making loud screeching noises.

  Eyo’s arms go slack at the sight.

  One of Layla’s legs buckle as the ninth lash comes. It’s like a demonic version of our house mother spawned to life. It’s as if…

  Oh my gods… Jirel knows. The ocean of dark fed him her fears.

  Wtshh!

  The tenth lash comes with maniacal laughter in the voice of our house mother.

  I have to be hallucinating.

  Layla’s expression falls in disbelief. Her stare goes blank behind her shield as her second leg buckles.

  “No. Get up, Lay.” I grit my teeth. “It’s not real!”

  The dark breaks through her barrier, crawling over her skin, sizzling inside her veins to create more scars. Her cries are manic. Haunting.

  I look to Prominent Eyo, who seems to regain herself.

  “Do not falter, cadet!” she calls, to my surprise. I thought she wanted Layla to be humbled during this round. Then why is she—

  “That’s an order!” Eyo shouts. “Find your strength! Hammer stance!”

  “Rrrrah!” Layla digs deep. I hear the six-month cry of inadequacy… the lifetime of powerlessness she thought she’d endure. “Rrrrah!” She gets to her feet and finds the will to reignite the stance.

  Boom! Her shield crashes down with intensity, and a windy light burns away all of the slivers crawling over her back and face. She’s free of the warring dark once more.

  “Is that all you’ve got, steel?” Layla bellows, veins jutting out of her neck. “I thought you were bred for war. C’mon!”

  The audience gasps.

  “Oh shit.” Jurso pulls at his hair. “That was the most badass thing anyone has ever said.”

  “Might also be the last.” Misty points.

  In an angered fluster, Jirel frowns defiantly and recoils his whip high in the air, snapping it near the farthest boat, then unleashing it down to lash her.

  “Hra!” She stomps her shield forward as the lash comes, and a reverberating force sends the steel rank a single step back—whip limp and disintegrating in his hand.

  “Woo!” The crowd loses their minds as Eyonasis raises her hand.

  “Halt!” Eyo calls as two angry slivers of warring dark coiling around Jirel’s fists threaten the stability of the alt-magic summit.

  With an angry grunt, Jirel capitulates and stands at attention.

  “She did it.” I look over at Lay wincing. She holds up an arm to receive the praise—flower petals floating down from the sky is a nice touch by the alt-magic users.

  Misty shoves two fingers in her mouth and whistles at ear-piercing octaves. Rogo’s so excited I wonder if he’ll fall off the damn boat. The brute’s come a long way from taunting everyone into hating him. And me? I couldn’t be happier. My guard found her way… finally.

  Prominent Eyo claps. “Well, that certainly was an incredible display, Layla. Everyone, and I mean everyone falls to steel in their first year. You deserve your praise and the five merits I will allot you.”

  “Oh shit!” Jurs laughs. “That puts her in the lead. She’s ahead of you with those, Hale. Hah!”

  “Nothing like a little competition.” I smile. “Good on her.”

  “However,” Eyo says. “You won’t be leaving with them without suffering that humility.”

  The mages smirk at one another.

  “Gather your wits, cadet, since you seem to have so much life in you.” Eyo places her arms behind her back.

  Layla spins on her Prominent. “I’ve done what you asked. Showed up in this ridiculous outfit—”

  Everyone chuckles.

  “—Suffered the elements… even a lashing from my house mother. Thanks for that, steel rank. Lovely memories you somehow got your hands on.” She scoffs at him before turning back to her Prominent. “Let me leave this summit with grace.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not the duty of a first year.”

  Lay clenches her jaw.

  I’m worried she’ll flip on her Prominent and throw her progress to the wind. Just keep cool, Lay.

  “There’s one last stance I require. Mages!” Eyo calls.

  Layla huffs and tiredly grabs her shield.

  “If you are to be a great anti-mage in battle, you will know chaos like nothing this sanctum can show you. But here… today… you’ve earned a taste. Fire!”

  Layla turns a quick one-eighty, noting all four mages charging up their elements. Fire, ice, lightning, and dark, all at the same time.

  My head is on fire planning for her. She should do tree stance first since lightning is so chaotic, then a quick switch to stone to block the fire. Warring dark takes the longest to channel, by the looks of it, so hammer stance should be last—

  To my utter shock, all of the mages release their blasts in succinct timing—the lightning mage holding hers back last—so all attacks will hit at once. She’s meant to be toppled here. Maybe even die.

  I can’t let that happen.

  Her pristine armor is scuffed, exposed skin bloody and cracked. Her breathing is getting heavier.

  “Layla!” Prominent calls. “Quake stance!”

  She huffs, throwing her shield on her back and closing her eyes in surrender.

  No. Not surrender. She’s drawing all her energy as the elements swarm to destroy her. Another deep breath scares me half to death. What is she doing? I’ve never seen her act in this manner. Probably because such a stance seems like a taunt than anything. She clasps her fingers together and with a mighty roar slams her fists on the ground, drumming up a wave of visible air that swirls all of the elements to dust… all but the warring dark.

  It eats away at her magnificent barrier, slithering over her neck and face, polluting her soul again. The steel rank is too powerful.

  “This is madness, Hale,” Jurs says. “We have to help her. She’s going to—”

  A primal grunt makes Jurso gasp.

  She struggles to rise to full height once more—eyes white with rims of black, teeth gritted as dark mist seeps between them.

  “She’s breaking stance before the spell’s been warded off.” Misty covers her face with both hands. “I can’t watch.”

  “Rruh!” Lay slams the ground a second time, reactivating quake stance.

  Prrrsht!

  The dark finally dispels to mist.

  As soon as the elements disperse, she falls on her back.

  The whole audience goes silent. Embers float over her body. She looks cooked, but when she holds up her fist, everyone is off their feet with cheers.

  I exhale and dip my head to press it flat against the wood. She’s alright. Thank the fucking gods. I sigh with relief as an epiphany slaps me in the face. This is how she felt when watching the Danes drag orphans onto the Seal. She just didn’t want me to die. It wasn’t about her lack of faith in me… it was just her worry taking over.

  I get it now, Lay.

  Eyo snaps her fingers, and the alt-magic spell is broken. We’re back in the sanctum, cuing bliss users to rush over to Layla, pulling her to her feet. The crowd is alive with excitement, as am I.

  “Order. Order.” Eyo holds up her hand while walking casually onto the arena. “My dear cadet. You shine valiantly this day.” She presses her glowing hand against Lay’s shoulder, presenting her with the five merits as promised, and then leans over to her assistant, holding up two tomes. “Graduation into phase two of my detailed plan. Read these carefully now that you know what I’ve been training you for.”

  I use Dovesier’s magnificent sight to read their titles from back here. One a lineage tome, and the other looks to be mythos.

  Layla bows to her Prominent, then exchanges a few words in private. I can only imagine it has something to do with this great anti-mage power Eyo’s been hiding right under Layla’s nose for six months. Incredible. Really.

  After a few pats on the back and Layla shrugging off the healers, she struts over to us with one bum leg and presents the tomes to me.

  We hold eye contact for a second, speaking volumes without saying anything. Her renewed confidence is attractive. Her presentation was awe-inspiring. And all of the talk about going to the war-tier together is now justified.

  “I’ll take that.” I grab the tomes playfully, then turn with Jurso at my side, flipping through the pages of the ancient art, scanning the summary. “The movements of a resistant warrior can diffuse the air with which magic is called. It must be timed with precision. Air must be woven with grace. This art is deemed anti-magi hacorum, or in more current times, anti-mage hymns.”

  Jurso lifts his head from the tome. “You hear that, Lay? You really are this group’s guard.”