I write a sentence, dip my quill back into my inkwell, and then write another sentence. Slowly, word by careful word, the essay starts to feel like mine again. And I start to believe that despite his walls and his distance, Severin sees me more clearly than I ever realized.
Chapter 28
Severin
THE MOON IS FULL TONIGHT, and there aren’t any clouds overhead to impede the starlight. I’ve been moving through the cold air for an hour, flowing through my drills and stances, preparing myself for Maeve’s arrival, trying to center my thoughts before she undoubtedly sends them all spiraling.
I have my tunic off and am barefoot, wearing only a loose pair of trousers. Sweat clings to my skin, and a crisp breeze cools me as I swipe my blade, listening to the clean, sharp whistle it makes as it slices the through the air.
The song of the blade.
That’s what my good friend used to call it; he’d close his eyes and listen as his blade cut through the air, and when I once asked what he was smiling at, he’d say he was listening to its song.
I curl my fingers tighter around the hilt, the emeralds and rubies adorning it winking in the starlight.
I’ve just finished a flow when the door to the Skyreach Spire whispers open behind me, and within moments, I smellher. My fangs ache, my throat suddenly too dry. For a second, I close my eyes, calling on the calm I’ve cultivated since I’ve been up here. And once I find it, once I have it firmly in my grasp, I turn to face her.
She has her dark purple hair twisted back into two long braids, and around her throat is a glossy black snake.
One look at her and I’m already in awe.
She’s both a storm goddess and a serpent goddess wrapped into one sharp-eyed package.
“You started without me,” she says, already reaching to pull her boots off so her toes can kiss the stone. Once she tucks her boots under the bench beside mine, she flicks a glance at me. “Feeling impatient, Professor?”
“I’m three centuries old,” I remind her. “Impatience gets you nowhere.”
She makes a little sound like a scoff and a laugh, and I know she doesn’t believe me. “So,” she says, grabbing the sword she’s been using for our practices from where it was lying on the stone bench and sliding it smoothly from its sheath, “what are we learning tonight?”
“Tonight,” I say, “we focus on movement.”
One of her brows arches as she comes to join me in the center of the tower. The serpent wrapped around her neck lifts its head and flicks its tongue, and I wonder if it can taste my hunger in the air.
“We always focus on movement,” she says, tipping her head left and right, then grabbing one foot to stretch out her thigh before switching to the other.
“No,” I say, “we’ve focused on foundation: how to hold yourself, how to breathe, basic stances. Tonight, you take what you’ve learned and turn it into movement.”
She studies me for a moment, her dark purple eyes catching the starlight as if they’re polished amethyst. Her fingers flex subtly around the hilt of her sword, and she gives me a single nod. “All right. I’m ready.”
“Start with your opening sequence.”
Maeve moves herself into position. She plants her bare feet on the cold stone and draws a slow breath. The snake around her throat coils tighter, its head resting in the divot between her collarbones.
Then Maeve moves.
Her stances aren’t perfect, and they need more fluidity, but I can see how she’s making an effort to soften her muscles, to let go of the tension and rigidity. The first sweep of her sword is cautious, the second a bit more focused. By the third, she’s beginning to find her center.
“Do you know why I’m teaching you swordsmanship?” I ask, circling her as she continues to practice the movements I’ve taught her.
She thrusts forward with the blade, a huff of breath accompanying the movement. Then she says, “To learn how to control myself.”
I arch a brow. “Not quite.” As I come to stand in front of Maeve again, I lift my sword, inviting her to dance in the way we’ve been practicing. “I’m teaching you swordsmanship,” I say as her blade meets mine, “because it’s a balance of controlandmovement. Restraint and freedom.” I step to the side, and Maeve mirrors my movement, crossing one foot over the other, lighter on her feet than she was when we first began our training.
We flow through a series of movements, and though Maeve is already starting to breathe hard, she keeps pace with me.
“I can’t teach you storm magic,” I continue. “I have no magic in my veins. What Icanteach you”—I strike her blade with sudden force, sending it clattering onto the stone—“is freedom of movement.”
Maeve narrows her eyes at me, a look of irritation flashing across her face.
