“Well done. That’s enough for your first lesson.”
Relieved, I lower the sword, and my shoulder muscles could weep with relief.
But then he says, “Now, show me what you’ve been working on.”
Chapter 26
Severin
“NOW?” MAEVE ASKS.
Her whininess makes me want to smile, but I keep my expression neutral. “Yes, now.” I arch a brow at her slowly. “Unless the storm witch is too tired from her dance practice?”
Immediately, her eyes harden, her lips pressing into a firm line.
I’ve learned that with Maeve, challenge is its own language, and I’ve never seen her back down from one.
She sheathes the sword she was using and leaves it on the stone bench, then walks to the center of the tower. “Back up,” she says. “I don’t want my magic to hurt you.”
Curiosity tugging at me, I nod once, then give her space, retreating to the stone railing encircling the spire, my own sword sheathed and stowed away beside hers.
Standing under the night sky, with her dark violet hair drifting around her face in the crisp autumn breeze, Maeve looks almost... otherworldly. She closes her eyes and takes abreath, her chest rising and falling with the movement. Then she holds out her hands and begins to draw on her magic.
Immediately, I can feel a change in the air, a shift in the energy all around me. The sharp, clean scent of ozone tickles my nose, and my instincts tell me there’s about to be a storm.
But it’s no simple autumn storm; it’s Maeve Vandermere.
She’s more like a hurricane, like the brutal weather that pummels the coasts of Elarwyn in the summer, sending unlucky ships plummeting to the ocean floor. There’s a tangible power to her, and it makes the hair on my arms and neck stand on end.
Eyes still closed, Maeve furrows her brow, deep in concentration. And from the very air around her, she starts to pull energy. Tiny sparks flicker to life around her fingers, and she gathers them slowly, drawing more and more energy, until held between her palms is a ball of crackling white light. It’s small at first, small enough that she could conceal it within her fingers, but she continues feeding it, making it grow.
And I understand now why she wanted me to step back. Even from this distance, the energy is a physical presence in the air, humming and electric and alive.
It feels like I’m standing at the source of a lightning storm, like she’s the goddess of lightning, about to send her power crackling across the world below.
Her long hair lifts around her shoulders, caught in the energy current as if she’s drifting under the sea. I probably wouldn’t be surprised if she started to levitate.
Maeve is . . . magnificent. Extraordinary. Marvelous.
And deep inside, I realize something.
Among all those things she already is, I desperately want her to bemine.
Not just a passing interest. Not a forbidden affair that entertains us through the winter. Not a passionate night that I’ll look back on for decades to come.
I want her in a way I’ve never wanted anyone else, in a way I thought was impossible for me.
Having lived a life as long as mine, I’ve experienced more than many others will ever get to. And though I feel grateful for that, somewhere along the way, I started to lose touch with the beauty in each day, as if there was nothing new left for me to discover.
Now, I know I was wrong. And it took this one storm witch to show me that.
The white light from Maeve’s energy sphere illuminates her face and the sweat beading on her brow. Her eyes, at first closed peacefully, start to squint, as if she’s squeezing them as tight as she can. And even from here, I can see the way her fingers start to tremble, struggling to contain and control the energy sphere as it continues to pulse and swirl.
Then, in a burst of crackling sound and white light, the energy sphere explodes. I wince against the bright flash, holding up a hand to shield my eyes. A sharp crack echoes around us as the force of her power slams into the stone, and when I lower my hand, I find a fracture running along the railing encircling the tower, still lightly smoking. Maeve’s sparks drift against the blue-black sky, like glowbugs in the summer.
And Maeve is standing there in the center of the tower, breathing hard, trying to catch her breath.
Immediately, I go to her, crossing the tower in a few short strides and taking her chin in my hand, turning her face this way and that in a worried assessment. “Are you all right?” I ask. “Are you hurt?”
