Page 85 of Queen of War and Ruin

He’s staring at me like he might stare at a creature caught in a cage, a trapped wild beast that may still bite. Slowly, he pulls something to the table. A long silver chain. It hisses as he tugs it off the wood.

I flinch. My skin pulls tight, and the back of my throat turns bitter.

“You’ve seen this before,” Varitan says.

I nod. There’s not much sense in denying it.

“What can you do with this?” he asks.

“I don’t know what in the hells you’re⁠—”

He thrusts forward, the chain hissing in his fist like a snake. Silver metal leaps toward me. I pull back, but I already know I won’t be fast enough. My body stiffens against the blow.

There’s a crack, like a clay pitcher dropped against a stone floor. The chain stops just before it hits my face, then falls limp in Varitan’s hand. Varitan raises an eyebrow. I have the unmistakable feeling that he’s calling me a liar.

I exhale, air leaving my lungs like I’ve just been punched. My gut pulls tight, and I curl forward. My pulse throbs in my temples. I feel strangely exhausted, like I’ve just run the length of the palace walls.

“It always takes a toll,” Varitan says. “The better you get, the easier it is. But.” He walks closer, pinning me down with his pale eyes. “It is never easy to wield magic.”

“I don’t know,” I gasp, “what you’re talking about.”

He’s faster this time.

The silver chain strikes like a viper, coming straight for my eyes. My skin pulls tight; my gut curls. There’s another loud crack.

The chain freezes in front of me. And then it falls to the ground.

I lean forward and vomit onto the stones. Varitan kicks the chain. It skids across the polished stone floor and comes to rest beneath the table.

Magic.

Magic is a bedtime story for children.

But that chain was going to hit me in the face. And it stopped when I wanted it to stop. My skin prickled, my body felt hot, and the chain fell to the floor.

Exactly where I wanted it to fall.

“H-How?” I stammer. “How did I⁠—”

I can’t bring myself to say the word magic.

Varitan rolls his eyes like he’s bored already.

“Because you’re like me,” he drawls.

I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and shiver. The room spins and pulses around me. The first flashes of a blinding headache scream inside my skull.

“I’m not,” I say. It comes out as a thin, creaking protest, like a rusty gate squealing about being opened.

“Oh, please,” Varitan replies. “Do I need to hit you again?”

I don’t respond. He turns to me with a nasty smile.

“Tell me,” he says, “was your mother a whore?”

“I beg your pardon?” I snap.

“Was she abandoned? An orphan, perhaps?”