“This is for you.”
He holds it out to me. I don’t move.
“A... blade?” I ask, arching a brow slowly.
“Yes.”
“I’m a storm witch. How is this going to help with my fellowship preparation?”
“Are you always so confrontational?” he asks. But before I can reply, he steps forward and offers the blade again. “Take the sword, Maeve.”
The way he says my name, like he’s annoyed with me and wants to kiss me at the same time, finally softens me, and I accept the sheathed blade.
It’s heavier than I expected, and I realize that I’ve never held a sword before. Lyra pestered Raelan into giving her a swordsmanship lesson once, but Poppy, Alina, and I just watched, teasing Lyra as she struggled with the heavy weapon.
Now I realize I shouldn’t have laughed.
I pull the blade free of the sheath and admire the way it glints in the torchlight, so polished I can see my reflection in it.
Severin takes the sheath and returns it to the stone bench, then circles me slowly.
“Your magic overwhelms you because you meet it with force,” he says. “You grasp it, try to confine it.”
I flick a glance at him as he comes to stand in front of me. “I have to confine it. Otherwise, it’s dangerous.”
A tiny smile crosses his lips. “Do you remember what you told me that first day in class?”
The first day in class, when I argued with him about the Tempest Cataclysm and the devastation that occurred.
“I said many things. Which are you referring to?”
With that smile still on his face, he says, “‘Storms need guidance, not dominance.’ But you’ve been trying to dominate yours, haven’t you?”
My fingers tighten around the hilt of the sword, but I say nothing.
“Your attempts at control have been ineffective, so we’re going to try something else.” He glances down at my feet. “Shoes off.”
Partially annoyed and partially curious, I kick my soft-soled boots to the side of the tower, where they thump against the stone.
“Feet apart.”
I adjust my footing.
“Wider.”
With a sigh, I widen my stance.
“You’re too stiff.” He walks around behind me, and one of his hands finds my shoulder. Immediately, his touch comforts me, and the tension eases from my muscles. “Better.” His breath tickles my ear, and a tingle goes down my back. “But you continue bracing yourself.”
“I’m preparing myself,” I counter.
“You’re already expecting resistance. But a sword doesn’t battle the air; it moves through it.” He steps closer, his heat warming my back through my thin tunic. “Lift your blade.”
I do.
“Not like that.” A low rumble of a laugh escapes him. He reaches out to touch my wrist. “If you grip the hilt too tightly, your arm locks. Your muscles should always be soft.”
I focus on my fingers, slowly easing my grip on the hilt. “Better?”
