Page 59

“So, starting with the candle is what? A way to desensitize me?”

“In part, yes.” He pauses, and a teasing light enters his gaze. “Tell me, little bird. Can you throw a blade?”

I arch a brow. “Yes.”

“Can you hit the target?”

“Of course.”

“Then you know you don’t fling a knife and hope for the best. You grip it firm enough to control it. You align your body, feel the wind, gauge the weight, and then you trust the throw. But to do any of that, you first must learn not to fear the blade.” Lyxander looks toward my hands. “Theïkós is like wielding an extension of yourself. You must master its balance, its weight, let it become part of you.”

My breath stumbles, falling into a shallow, uneven rhythm, as though the air itself refuses to yield. Or perhaps it’s the other way around, and I’m the one unwilling to accept it.

I stand motionless as he turns and walks to the stairwell.

“Try again. This time don’t aim to prove anything. Hit the target.”

I sink to the cold stone floor, my legs folding beneath me as my gaze drifts to the structures of lightning stone.

Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, the cool air filling my lungs. I conjure the image I created for my theïkós, the vessel within me, the silver power filled to the brim. I don’t reach for the wind, don’t demand its obedience. Instead, I listen. To the faint whisper as it brushes against my skin. To the way it shifts and swirls, alive and untamed. My fingers curl slightly as I coax forth the silver wisps. To learn its weight, its balance, its rhythm.

For the first time, I stop trying to control it. Instead, I let it lead, listening as it whispers hymns softly into my ears.

Deep within, a melody rising in answer.

I’m not sure how long I sit there, lost in thought, but by the time I stand and make my way back to the library, the sun has already dipped below the horizon. The quiet crackle of the fireplace fills the space, its warm glow dancing across the shelves.

I approach the candle, coaxing its flame back to life with a match before settling into my seat once more.

The night has been relentless in its quiet. Every hour slipped through my fingers like the wind I now hold so delicately in my grasp.

My hands hover on either side of the flame. The silver wisps appear in my vision, and I use them as a guide to coax the air into motion, weaving one strand into another. They twist and braid together, forming a delicate lattice sphere around the flame, encasing it in a protective cocoon.

I exhale slowly, my breath controlled, and the shield holds. The flame steadies, no longer flickering, and a small, triumphant smile tugs at my lips. Curling my fingers around the wooden base of the candleholder, I lift it carefully.

The flame doesn’t waver.

I spent days trying to get the flame to blow to the left, and now that I’ve finally managed it, it feels almost trivial compared with this. The air shield is delicate, intricate, and far more impressive than nudging a flame in one direction. But I can’t deny the satisfaction of knowing I’ve done both. Maybe Lyxander will be impressed. Or maybe he’ll just smirk and tell me it’s about time.

The candle flame burns steadily as I stride from the library, my mind locked on maintaining the barrier of air around it. I clutch the wooden base of the candleholder closer as I reach Lyxander’s door. It’s already open a crack, and I hesitate for a heartbeat before knocking briskly. The shield of air ripples but holds firm as I adjust my grip.

“Lyxander?” I call, a tremble in my voice that has nothing to do with fear as a smile tugs at the corners of my lips.

“Yes?”

I nudge the door open with my shoulder and step inside. The draft from the door opening tries to snuff the flame out, but the shield holds strong.

“I’ve been practicing all night,” I say. “Look.”

I curl my fingers and gently release the air shield, directing the room’s currents into a soft, swirling motion to the left.

The flame bends to the breeze.

“There.” I lift my gaze, and all the other words I wanted to say catch in my throat.

Lyxander stands a few feet away, half turned toward me, his wings tucked tightly at his back. Morning light streams through the arched windows, outlining him in gold and making it impossible to ignore the fact that he is very, very shirtless.

His body bears the marks of a battle fought within—a war waged against his power, lost and won in equal measure, yet somehow he’s still standing.