Page 77 of Embers of Ruin

Yet. A truly comforting word that I do not like the sound of.

“I guess the last part should make me feel more comfortable?”

His mouth curves into a faint smile, and I hate that my pulse reacts. I hate that I know he feels it, too. He’s already mentioned as much.

“Again,” he says.

I glare at him for a long moment before closing my eyes again, mostly because I refuse to let him think I can’t. The cold pressure returns, lighter this time, skirting the edges of my thoughts rather than pushing. I picture a wall made of thick stone. It’s solid and impenetrable, like the walls of Andell. Thorin’s presence pauses at the edge of it.

The feeling sends a shiver down my spine.

“You are building barriers too late,” he says.

“Seriously, Thorin? Even my imaginary wall disappoints you?”

“Your imaginary wall is terrible.”

My eyes snap open. “That was unnecessary.”

“It’s the truth. They are.”

“Do you critique everyone’s mind this rudely or am I receiving special treatment?”

“For you, special treatment always, muya quenati.”

Heat rises to my face before I can stop it, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off of me so he immediately notices.

Of course. Of course he notices. I want to shove him into the fountain.

Instead, I close my eyes again because perhaps blindness will save me from the perfectly symmetrical structure of his face. It doesn’t.

His presence returns, and this time I try not to recoil. It brushes against my thoughts like cold smoke. For a few moments, I manage to hold steady. The fear is there, sharp and bright, but so is anger, and anger is familiar enough to hold onto. My magic stirs, not flaring yet, but watching. Waiting.

Thorin moves deeper. Not far, only a step past the threshold. But the moment he does, something inside me slams shut.

It’s not by choice. A barrier rises so abruptly that I nearly gasp. It is not the flimsy wall I tried to imagine. This one is different. It’s old, and hard. Bright as sunlit gold and cold as glass. I feel Thorin strike it before I understand what it is, and his entire presence stills.

The garden around me disappears. For one suspended moment, there is only the barrier and the king standing before it. Then his voice reaches me, not through the air but somewhere inside my mind. Who built this? Panic tears through me and the barrier trembles. I can’t think, reach Thorin, or scream. It’s as if I’m trapped in my own mind. Thorin’s presence sharpens, not cruel but focused, and that focus frightens me worse than anger. He’s not trying to hurt me and I can sense he’s trying to understand. What is he trying to understand?

Don’t touch it, I warn. The words burst from me like light. Then everything goes wrong as the barrier flares.

Power rips outward through my body, so sudden and violent that my eyes fly open and I stagger back from the bench. The garden tilts and air cracks around me. The dead vines overhead whip violently though no wind touches them. Silver-gold light floods my hands, my arms, my vision.

Mazelle moves to place herself between Thorin and me. “Break the connection!”

Her voice cuts through the chaos as she rushes toward me, one hand outstretched, and I know she is trying to help. Some distant part of me understands that. Unfortunately, the part of me currently drowning in panic does not care. All I see is movement. A threat. Another hand reaching for something inside me without permission. I’m vaguely aware that I’m seeing gold. Whatever movement coming toward me looks as if it’s covered in gold. Are these my eyes?

I lift my arm, barely a motion. It’s a slight wave of my hand. The force that answers terrifies me, and I know my magic. At least—I thought I did. Light erupts from my palm in a violent crescent, beautiful and terrible, and slams into Mazelle before I can stop it. She flies backward across the garden, her body hitting the base of a tree hard enough to split the bark with a crack that makes my stomach turn.

Silence crashes down and for a heartbeat, no one moves. Then Mazelle pushes herself up on one elbow, hair loosened from its perfect knot, fury flashing in her dark eyes. But she’s alive. Thank the gods. Alive… and staring at me as if she wants to kill me.

My hand drops. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

My voice sounds small and I hate it. I’m not weak, I’ve never been weak. But whatever that was? That genuinely terrified me. Mazelle stands slowly, brushing bark from her sleeve as though being thrown across a garden by an uncontrolled burst of magic is merely an inconvenience to her morning.

“Clearly you didn’t mean to. You lack control.”

Onyx is already halfway toward me but Thorin lifts a hand and shadows rise between them. Onyx stops midstep. The movement is so fast and immediate that the garden seems to hold its breath. Onyx’s jaw clenches, every line of him rigid with restrained fury, but he does not cross the shadows. Thorin doesn’t look at him.