And that completely changes the vibe. I step toward him. “What about it?”
Severin stands a bit straighter, and the golden sunlight coming through the classroom windows makes his black eyes look like flecks of gold are floating in them. “Headmistress Moonhart has asked that I... assist you.”
Immediately, I bristle, annoyed at knowing the professors were discussing me—and my shortcomings, apparently. “Assist me with what?”
Severin doesn’t have magic; how is he supposed to help me with mine?
“Guidance,” he says simply.
I grip the strap of my bookbag and narrow my eyes. “I don’t understand.”
Severin stares back at me, seeming for a moment to consider his next words. Then he says, “Professor Azula believes you are close to being ready, but your next demonstration is critical. With my experience in control, the headmistress believes I may be of some help to you.”
Control.
I’ve grown so tired of that word. If I never hear it again, it’ll still be too soon.
“Does Moonhart not think I’m controlled?”
“She said nothing of the sort,” Severin says. “Only that she believes my experience could be helpful to you.”
We hold each other’s gazes, mine probably suspicious, his guarded, unreadable.
“Do not be defensive,” Isis whispers to me. “If Headmistress Moonhart believes he can help you, he likely can.”
Her words break the spell on me, and I slowly release my tight grip on my bookbag and let out a long sigh, shoulders relaxing. Isis is right. Headmistress Moonhart sees more than she lets on—a scary amount, actually—and she’s got a special knack for knowing what her students need, even when they don’t.
Like Lyra when we were second-years. That community service turned out to be the best thing for her.
“All right,” I say, trying to keep the lingering annoyance from my tone. “When and where?”
A small smile flickers across Severin’s lips, warming my chest, before quickly disappearing. “This evening. The spire.” He starts to turn away, then pauses to add, “Wear something comfortable.”
ALL DAY, I WAS CURIOUS about what Severin has planned for me and why I need to wear comfortable clothes. Even now, as I climb the winding stairs to the Skyreach Spire, wearing a soft black tunic and flowy black pants, Iwonder what we’re going to do—and how he thinks it’ll help with my storm magic and energy sphere.
When I get to the top of the staircase, I detect a hint of Severin’s cologne still hanging in the air, and without meaning for it to, my heart beats just a bit faster.
I push open the door and step out onto the spire. Night is falling earlier and earlier as we move deeper into autumn, but the torches on either side of the door are alight, and they toss warm firelight across Severin’s form as he moves across the spire, blade in hand, metal gleaming as he moves it with practiced grace. He wields the sword like it’s an extension of his arm, each breath and shift of his weight appearing precise and intentional.
It’s impossible not to find him—and his art—beautiful.
The door whispers closed behind me, and Severin finishes his last movement, a smooth forward thrust with the polished sword, before lowering the blade and turning to meet my eyes.
For a long moment, we just look at each other, the crackling torches at my back tossing light across Severin’s pale face.
His gaze assesses me quickly. “Good,” he says. “You dressed appropriately.”
My lips tug up a bit on one side. “It would’ve helped if you told me what we’re going to be doing.”
His focused mask slips a bit, just enough to let one of those tiny smiles through. “That would’ve ruined the fun.”
A tiny laugh escapes me. “Professor Severin D’Arques likesfun?”
He arches a brow at me. “I have layers, Miss Vandermere.”
Not layered clothes, surely. Because right now, all he’s wearing is a pair of tight trousers and a tunic with a low V in thefront, which reveals glimpses of his strong chest. My eyes are drawn to his skin, and I can’t help but to recall my hands on his chest as I rode him the night of Samhain, then how it felt to be cuddled up against him afterward, safer than anywhere else in the world.
He crosses the spire, and from a low stone bench, he picks something up: a sheathed blade.
