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Dalca huffs a laugh.
“There you go. Much better with a smile. Maybe try that on her.”
“Thanks, Iz,” Dalca says dryly. And then, with the distinct air of changing the subject: “You up for a bit of sparring?”
“Dalca, darling, it’s past my bedtime. And shouldn’t you rest up? Tomorrow’s a big day.”
Izamal starts walking, and Dalca falls in step.
“Tomorrow’s just a friendly scrimmage, Iz. Hardly a big day.”
Once their steps fade to silence, I push the door open and peek around the edge. There’s no sign of them.
I run my hands down my arms, soothing the jitters under my skin as my feet take me back to the Ven. My head is one big knot. Fear for Pa, if the Trials come to be. A heady sense of triumph, that Dalca is affected by me—by Carver’s work.
And something else. A quivering in my bones that tells me to be wary of Dalca. That the closer I get to power, the closer I get to being stamped out.
