I grit my teeth, fangs still aching. Despite how tired I am, I know I need to move my energy, or I’m going to have a sleepless night.
And I know just where to go.
THE SUN HAS SET, LEAVING only a few streaks of dark violet and pink bleeding across the horizon. I stand atop the spire I discovered in my first few days here, before students arrived and I was able to explore the quiet of the campus while getting settled in. Now, I believe this place may be somewhat of a sanctuary for me.
On my way here, I had to hold my breath in the halls to avoid the somewhat nauseating scent of dinner in the dining hall. I don’tneedfood to survive, only blood, but I do enjoy a meal on occasion. Tonight, though, the dining hall was serving something with garlic and onion, and even now, I can still detect a slight tinge lingering in my nose as I breathe in the fresh air.
I hold my blade in one hand. It’s long and thin, a relic from centuries past, with a handle studded in glistening emeralds and rubies. It was a gift from a close friend decades ago—a pirate I once sailed with on the Charmed Sea. Thinking of him makes me frown. Many of my close friends are no longer for this world. One of the hazards of having a long life. Some think it a gift, but those who experience it often see it as a curse.
I pull my gaze away from the horizon and step to the center of the spire. The stone is sturdy and warm beneath my feet—which are bare, the only way I feel blade work should be practiced. One must feel everything, from the tips of the fingers to the bottoms of the toes. Practicing in footwear is a perversion of the art.
Closing my eyes, I focus on my breathing, and then slowly, I begin to move. The blade is no longer an object, but is instead an extension of me. I can feel the air as it whooshes across the blade’s fine edge, can hear the breathing of the steel as it slices through the ether. It’s alive, just as I am, just as the sky is.
My movements are deliberate, practiced, balanced. Each thrust or swipe of the blade carries intention. Blade work and swordsmanship are all about intention—both yours and your opponent’s. Understanding the intention in a ripple of muscle or shift of stance could be the difference between breathing and dying.
In my more reckless years, I used to engage in sword fights for money—the type of underground duels only one participant would walk away from. Now, I recall those men who fell at the tip of my blade, and I sit comfortably with the knowledge that I knowingly took their lives.
Though this acceptance didn’t come easily. It required many years of intense control to finally come to terms with my past, with the things I’ve done. It’s not so easy living for as long as I have. If one doesn’t learn how to put their burdens down, they’ll be crushed beneath their weight. Those with short lives—like humans—can struggle to understand this, and I often come across as cold to those who meet me.
I thrust forward, the steel singing through the air, perspiration making my skin damp. The violet and pink in the sky have darkened to a rich blue black, and stars slowly twinkle to life above me.
My body is warm now, and I pause to peel off my tunic, letting the late-summer air kiss the moisture from my skin. I take a sip from my flask—I’ve needed to drink from it more often today than I normally do—and then regain my starting stance, lift my blade, and begin again.
Because Maeve Vandermere’s eyes keep staring at me from my memory, and I need to chase the image of her away, even if it takes all night.
She willnotbe the undoing of my many years of control.
Nothing will.
I will not allow it.
Chapter 6
Maeve
BLANK PARCHMENT STARES UP AT me from my desk. I have my inkwell full, my quill poised to write, and my hair tied back from my face.
This is a good start.Professor Azula’s words echo in my mind, and I narrow my eyes.
A good start? This was a full summer of work.
I clench my fingers around my quill.
Lying on the desk beside my blank parchment is the essay I gave to Professor Azula. I felt sosureabout it, but now, as I side-eye it, I wonder where I went wrong.
The Arcanum Collective isn’t looking for an impassioned student with big dreams and bigger ideas; they’re looking for a graduate with focus and deliberation.
Focus. Deliberation. Control. These words keep coming back to me. But Iamfocused.
Am I controlled?
I think of the energy sphere I created this morning, the amount of effort and strength it took to hold it together for even a few seconds. And deep inside,my stomach turns with the worry that I might not be strong enough for this. If I can’t demonstrate my theory to the Arcanum Collective, there’s no way they’ll award me the fellowship. Then what will I do after graduation?
“Maeve,” Isis hisses gently from where she’s coiled around a tall silver candlestick standing on the corner of the desk.
I flick my gaze up to her and meet her slitted eyes.
“It’s been a long day. You don’t need to do this now.” She dips her glossy black head toward my parchment, where I’ve still yet to write a word.
