City of Strife: City of Spires, #1

Arathiel pulled himself out of the water, kicking and heaving, his fingers latching onto the uneven wooden planks of Isandor’s docks. He stared at his hands, afraid his grip would loosen once more. Last time, it had let go without his permission, without even warning him it had given up. Drenched and exhausted, Arathiel flopped on his back the moment his entire body was safely out.

What a wonderful homecoming.

After more than a hundred thirty years of absence, his city greeted him with a long swim through glacial water. At least, he assumed it was glacial. Late autumn chill must have settled over Isandor, turning the Reonne River coursing at its feet into a deadly frozen trap. Not even that cold was strong enough to pierce the numbness of his senses, however. Arathiel sat up, a sudden thought constricting his heart, and raised his hands. Shivering. Nausea gripped him. Just because he couldn’t feel the cold didn’t mean it wouldn’t affect him. Or kill him. He couldn’t stay put, unmoving.

Arathiel sprang to his feet. A wide circle of careful onlookers jerked back, surprised by the sudden movement. Their gazes remained fixed on him as he gained a tentative balance, arms spread and dripping. It would have been easier if he could have felt the docks under his feet, but that too had been stolen by the Well, sapped away through the decades. Arathiel had adapted since he’d escaped the magical trap, but his peculiarities still set many ill at ease. Not hard to imagine, really, once you put yourself in their shoes.

They had seen a black man clamber out of the icy water wearing nothing but a strange patchwork of multiple outfits, sewn together from scraps. His hair had turned as white as the snow which would soon fall on the city. By all rights he should be a useless and shivering mess on the ground, but instead he’d jumped up with the energy of a youth—and indeed, he couldn’t look older than thirty despite the white hair. A bloodied red line ran along his forearm, obviously recent, yet it didn’t pain him. A gift from the crew that had forced him to jump overboard, so close to his destination. The sailors must have figured out he couldn’t taste, smell, or sense what he touched, and it had scared them. Arathiel didn’t blame them. The world was full of dangerous mysteries, and one of them had been travelling on their ship.

He didn’t want to wait and see what fear could trigger in the dock workers, however. Arathiel wrung his clothes, and cleared his throat. Sorry about that.

Go away!

Arathiel wondered who had yelled that, but his muffled hearing made it hard to pinpoint the source. Before he could hurry on his way, a second voice called to him. Hey, are you all right?

A petite woman pushed through the crowd, brown hair held by a triangular scarf. She stomped up to him, high leather boots contrasting with her flowery skirt, and glared at the wide circle that had formed around them. When she reached for his forearm, Arathiel withdrew.

F-Fine, yes. Were his teeth chattering from the cold, or from the stress? He swallowed hard. Thank you.

Are you new in town? Do you need somewhere to stay? Help to get there?

Arathiel stared, reeling from her concern. Around them, the ring of dockers and other workers dissipated, moving along. Several still threw wary glances his way. Caution and threats were more frequent reactions to him than the insistent helpfulness Arathiel now faced. I’m … not sure. After all, he wasn’t new, but the prospect of knocking home—at the Brasten Tower, where he’d not set foot in a hundred thirty years—didn’t excite him. Not yet. Any suggestions?

You bet! I’m the queen of suggestions!

She motioned for him to go first, and after a hesitant step, Arathiel moved forward. Although she needed almost two steps for each of his long stride, her vibrant energy allowed her to keep up with ease. Arathiel’s new companion listed potential inns to greet him, most located in the Middle City—the buffer section between the poor neighbourhoods of the Lower City, and the rich noble towers of the Upper City. After a while, Arathiel stopped her.

I can’t afford these.

This time, she turned to take a good look at him. Her lips pinched. Of course. Should’ve known, with rags like these … Something in her tone indicated the state of his clothes irritated her more than anything else. Respectable establishments turn you away, don’t they? But I wouldn’t recommend most of those in the Lower City. They’re as likely to steal what you have left as to house you. Except—oh, I know! She clapped her hands, and Arathiel’s heart leaped at her enthusiasm. You should find the Shelter!

The Shelter. He liked the sound of it. One would hope the place meant to live up to its name.

Rumours say they let anyone in, and offer free meals. Kind of a last resort, but I’ve yet to hear a single bad story about it. Its patrons boast the food is miraculous—so good whoever owns this place must have been a high-class chef.

Arathiel allowed himself hope. Perhaps they wouldn’t be as welcoming as rumours promised, but he had to try. Where else would he go? He didn’t have the courage to face his family—or, well, their descendants—yet. Sounds like what I need, he said. You have my thanks, um …

Branwen. Lady Branwen Dathirii, to be exact, but don’t let it bother you.

His breath caught. A Dathirii? Of course the elven noble house would still hold power in Isandor. Their natural lifespan covered several centuries. His throat raw, Arathiel belatedly realized other elves he’d known before leaving would have survived. He stared at Branwen, trying to remember, but he doubted he’d met her. Too young. As a human, he’d have put her in her mid-thirties, which meant she must have been born within a decade of his departure from Isandor, either before or after. Temptation flickered through him, gone as quickly as it’d come. He could tell her who he was, ask to speak with the older members of the family. House Dathirii had always been welcoming. The idea twisted his gut, however, and Arathiel discarded it.

I’m Arathiel. Thank you.

Can you get there by yourself? she asked.

He nodded then parted from her without another word, barely hearing her wish him luck. Once he’d left her behind, he turned his attention to Isandor.

The city Arathiel remembered no longer existed—not to him, at any rate. Once, the cluster of sharp spires perched on a cliffside had been stunning in their irregular shapes and bright colours, each building an attempt to outshine the others with beautiful glasswork, forests of pinnacles, or cascading waterfalls. Now the colours were mostly gone for him, the towers a greyed blur to his damaged eyes, their life and beauty stolen from him. In a way, his city had become a reflection of himself: half-alive, a pale imitation of what it had once been.

At least the Upper City had changed beyond that. He’d noticed blooming gardens from the ship and, even down here, he could spot luscious vines hanging from every bridge. He wondered how many new archways had been built, connecting the towers hundreds of feet above the ground, forming an intricate network of paths. He would have ample time to discover. He was home now.

The thought brought nothing but a tightness in his chest. It had been a mistake, returning. A lot would have changed. His family would be long dead, taken by time or illness. He should have said goodbye instead of promising to return. But now, so many decades later, his home would be taken over by their descendants. Would there even be anything left for him? Would they believe he hadn’t perished a century ago, as should have happened? Improbable. But where else could he go? Arathiel had grown tired—tired of not feeling rough wood under his hand, tired of not smelling the salty sea or earthy autumn air, tired of not tasting even allegedly spicy meals. Tired of being alone, a shadow, always one step removed from the world. One day, he would need to face his family.

He pulled his hood up and hurried into Isandor proper. Passing through bustling areas of a city was like standing behind a glass wall, looking into the world. Dock workers pushed large crates around or sorted the latest loads of fish, but he could smell neither the sweat of the former nor the pungent stench of the latter. Their yells sounded muffled and distant, as though hands pressed against his ears. Sometimes Arathiel’s gaze caught a cloak snapping in the wind, but the gusts weren’t strong enough for him to feel their push. He could guess what he should perceive, which made the dull absence even harder to bear.

He was glad to reach the Lower City, all sloped streets and alleyways snaking at the feet of Isandor’s towers. The stench of refuse and unwashed bodies should be stronger here, choking him, but his throat wasn’t even a little raw. Half of Isandor’s population crammed into tiny apartments around him, and Arathiel couldn’t smell a single one of them. He hated this. He was home, but here the distance and numbness hurt more than anything. Home, yet not all there, not really. Arathiel took a deep, steadying breath, fighting off the creeping doubts. He had grown up in Isandor. If he couldn’t find himself here, he never would.

✵

Towers blocked what daylight remained by the time Arathiel reached the recommended Shelter: a tiny wooden house, built in the nook created by two towers at the very heart of the Lower City. Branwen Dathirii’s promises echoed in his mind, a glint of hope in an otherwise difficult day. Arathiel wished someone with such reputed culinary talent could prepare a meal even he would taste, but studying the building now, he suspected a gross exaggeration.

Years of downpours and wind had battered some of its planks while others seemed new, nailed on top of the spaces between old ones. The roof was also a sloped mismatch, all cracks and quick fixes, barely holding together. Rain must slip through and drip inside. At least they had a chimney, which meant a fire to keep everyone warm. Arathiel approached the door—heavy and solid, newer than most of the building, but a little too small for its hole. A perfect entry for the cold wind to sneak in at night. In fact, it probably did now, even if Arathiel couldn’t feel the gusts on his bare arms.

Arathiel stood in front of the door in silence for several minutes. He shook the mud off his boots, wrung his wet clothes again, glanced around. What if they turned him away, despite promises of accepting anyone? What if he remained too bizarre even for them? But what other choice did he have? If they didn’t accept him here, he might never find a room. This was his best bet. He would freeze outside, even if he didn't feel the cold creeping up on him. Arathiel straightened his outfit as much as he could, then put his hand on the door. A distant pressure on his palm bypassed his numbness as he pushed and entered the Shelter.

The buzz of conversations enveloped him right away, closer and warmer than at the docks. Dozens of people sat around small tables or on the floor with bowls and mugs before them. Many huddled near a tiny fireplace, the only stone feature in the room. Arathiel had expected the floor to be in as bad of shape as the walls and roof but instead found brand-new wooden boards, clean except for the day’s mud. Nothing a sturdy mop wouldn’t wash away. Was this where people slept? They’d have warmth, protection from the elements, and clean ground. Luxuries, for most of them. No wonder they seemed so upbeat. Conversations were carried in loud voices instead of shady whispers, and laughter replaced the insults more common to lowly taverns. On the other side of the room, three musicians gathered around strange instruments: wooden spoons attached together, a metal rod and empty crates, and a rundown violin. The spoon-wielder sat on a chair, nodded to her companions, and snapped her heel against the ground. The sharp sound surprised Arathiel, carrying across the crowd so loud and clear even he caught it. Then they were off, lively music dancing in the air, bringing cheers from other patrons. The atmosphere dragged a smile out of Arathiel. He spotted an empty table and sat, searching for a waiter, wondering if there even was one.

A startling cheer caught his attention, and Arathiel turned his gaze to a section near the back of the Shelter. They'd pushed four tables together, forming an uneven surface. At its centre stood a large dessert plate covered with caramel-and-nut apples stacked atop one another. Several customers had gathered around. They all raised their mugs except the young half-elf who presided over their table. His brown cheeks turned a deeper shade as the circle of friends downed their drinks. Amid the mostly human crowd were a wary dark elf—not full-blooded, if one judged by his smaller ears, but with the same obsidian skin as others of his race—and an overweight halfling. As everyone lunged for their apple, the halfling’s gaze met Arathiel’s, then widened. He nudged the dark elf, pointed his way, then climbed off his chair. They looked worried. Arathiel ground his teeth and forced himself not to dash for the door.

As he wove his way between the tables, the halfling spoke to other customers—a few jokes, a laugh, an encouragement, then he moved on. Sometimes Arathiel lost track of him. Small even by his race’s standards, he vanished behind tables and slipped between everyone’s legs with remarkable ease. He eventually reached Arathiel, and his smile diminished after a quick inspection.

Are you okay? You must be freezing. It’s too cold for a midnight bath, you know. Concern shone in his stark blue eyes, adding a layer of seriousness to his quip. I’ll bring you a towel to dry yourself, and you should move to that table there, closer to the fire. It just won’t do to have you—

I’m fine, Arathiel blurted. How did one deal with so much concern after the wariness everyone treated him with? All I need is a room. A meal, too, perhaps.

And warmth. The halfling smiled, an encouragement to accept, a promise Arathiel could trust him. I’ll get you the meal and room, but please take the towel and dry yourself. As a favour to your host. He motioned toward the half-elf being celebrated—the one who'd lived at most twenty years and certainly shouldn’t own a place like this. It’s his birthday. Can’t refuse that to him.

This place belongs to him?

You’re really new, aren’t you? He laughed, then extended his plump hand, standing on the tip of his toes to reach higher. Let’s start from the beginning. I’m Cal. That’s Larryn, and yes, he’s the owner and cook. Did anyone tell you how things work around here?

The notion that he was new to Isandor when he’d lived here more than a century ago amused Arathiel, but it wasn’t wrong. He’d just arrived. Nothing like this Shelter had existed before. Arathiel shook Cal’s hand, ignoring how his own trembled from cold he couldn’t even feel.

Arathiel B— He bit back his family name. House Brasten might still stand, and impersonating a member of Isandor’s noble families would get him imprisoned. He had to be careful whom he told, and find a way to support his claims. Records from a hundred thirty years ago might not suffice. Curiosity lit Cal’s gaze, so Arathiel hurried to the next topic. I was informed you offer free meals and beds and allow everyone inside.

He tried to make it sound like the ‘allow everyone’ hadn’t worried him, but from the sad expression passing over Cal’s features, he’d failed.

You have to pay for rooms, he explained. We take what you can give. If you have no money at all, you can sleep on the floor. You’ll have a blanket and we keep the fire warm, and tomorrow morning there’s a free meal for everyone.

Arathiel reached for his coin pouch. When his fingers closed over thin air, his heart clenched. Gone again. Had it sunk in the Reonne when Arathiel had jumped ship? Or did a thief snatch it? He’d never know, like he’d never found out what had happened to the last six. He didn’t feel the weight of his purse, nor most people bumping into him. With a sigh, Arathiel reached for a second pouch hidden close to his heart. After the first two thefts, he’d learned from his mistakes. He was home now, in the city for good. He poured the few emergency coins he had left on the table.

How long does that get me?

Long! Eyes wide, Cal counted the money then scooped it off. Don’t worry about days. That’s a fortune by our standards and you’ll have your room until winter’s over.

A wave of relief washed over Arathiel. They might be trapping him—they could take his money and throw him out after—but Arathiel found it hard to distrust Cal or the Shelter as a whole. He’d often slept in low-class inns since leaving the Well, sometimes even curling up in the dark corner of an alley. He had seen people fight for a stale loaf of bread, get caught stealing half-rotten fruit, plead and beg for scraps and bones. Here they had an abundance of food and drink, but no one quarrelled for it, like they all knew that for once, they would survive without stepping on others. Instead they celebrated the young owner who no doubt made it possible.

I’m glad I came here.

Arathiel had been talking mostly to himself, but Cal brightened at the words, as if the praise had been addressed directly to him.

You’ll have room number six. No locks anywhere, but you have a chair inside to bar it, if you’re worried about thieves. Take that corridor over there, he said, pointing. Numbers are painted on the doors. Welcome to Isandor, Mister Arathiel! I’ll be back with a warm meal and a towel to keep you dry and cozy.

Arathiel knew he wouldn’t feel the food’s warmth whether down his throat or through the bowl. Yet Cal’s concern sufficed to draw him in, erasing much of this distance he perceived between himself and the world. He watched the celebration at the back of the Shelter continue, envious knots forming in his stomach. Larryn had a home, knew his role in life. Arathiel wondered if he would ever find his. At least he had somewhere to sleep, and the first genuinely kind contact in a long while.

One step at a time, Arathiel promised himself. One step at a time, and he would find meaning to his life again.

Hasryan didn’t mind the cold night if it meant he escaped the Shelter’s cheering crowd. Every occasion to mingle with the patrons brought mixed feelings. On the one hand, they never commented on his jet-black skin and included him in all discussions. On the other, Hasryan always detected a hint of reluctance at his presence, and he disliked large groups. Too hard to keep track of everyone. He preferred to know where others’ were and most importantly, who stood right behind him.

The Shelter’s roof might threaten to collapse, but to Hasryan’s over-cautious mind, it would always be safer than a mass of people. Besides, he’d shared a drink with Larryn in more dangerous locations before. They’d initiated their friendship on a balcony of House Allastam’s tower. It hadn’t threatened to give in under their weight, but had any guards found two half-elves—including a dark-skinned one—sharing life stories in their home without permission, it wouldn’t have ended well.

Larryn let his legs dangle over the edge of the roof, mug stuck between his knees, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. They’d come up together, Hasryan sitting on Larryn’s right as always—his friend’s left ear had never entirely recovered from an infection. Larryn had spent the last five minutes in silence, chin tilted up as he glared at the criss-cross of bridges above their heads. Between the bridges and the rising towers, they could barely see the sky. Hasryan didn’t speak. The quiet didn’t bother him. They could let it stretch for over an hour at times, especially if Larryn had his hands busy preparing the next meal for the Shelter. Strange, how different Hasryan’s two friendships were. Cal couldn’t endure more than a few minutes without anyone speaking.

What did Cal say about the newcomer? Larryn’s voice shattered the silence. He turned his grey eyes to Hasryan, not bothering to hide his wariness. He extended the same protectiveness to his Shelter as he did to children, and Larryn could always sense when someone didn’t come from Isandor’s streets. He could tell from their smell, their demeanour—from a lifetime of experience inhabiting the Lower City.

He declared him trustworthy.

Which means shit coming from Cal. He’d call an assassin trustworthy.

Hasryan stiffened. He’d shared so many stories and silences with Larryn, he often forgot how much more he’d kept secret. He also said it sounded like most places didn’t want to serve him. Funny how that happens to people with dark skin and white hair, huh? Not that this Arathiel possessed any elven blood. His facial structure wasn’t angular enough, and he had round ears.

Point taken. Larryn raised his mug and drank. As long as he doesn’t cause problems, I don’t mind him here. Same rules as anyone.

Rules Hasryan inwardly thanked him for. It helped to have a safe haven, and he often wished Larryn had entered his life sooner. He might have been too young for such a building, however. So … Are you ever going to reveal how old you are, or is it some kind of state secret?

Secret. Best to let everyone believe they’re dealing with a responsible adult, well into his twenties.

Hasryan’s clear laugh covered the hint of conversations below. No one thinks you’re responsible. Do you take us for fools?

Shut up. Larryn grinned and shoved him. I’m more adult than all the assholes living in towers above, prancing about with fancy silk underwear and commanding dozens of servants.

Not a high standard.

Larryn snickered, then downed the rest of his beer. Tell you what, he said with a substantial slur to his speech, I’ll give you my age when you reveal what it is you do, exactly. For work.

Hasryan had to force himself to laugh. A lifetime of lies made it easier than it should have been. Me? Just a trustworthy assassin.

He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips. Some things should remain unsaid, even as a joke. When Larryn snorted, reiterating how ridiculous the idea was to him, Hasryan focused on his drink and struggled to ignore the painful stab in his heart.

I can live without knowing your age, he said.

More importantly, Larryn could never learn of Hasryan’s job. How did one tell his best friend—his only friend, aside from Cal—he was a trained assassin? Oh, nothing much, Larryn. I just kill people for money! No way, especially now. They joked about the mystery around Larryn’s age, but to Hasryan, secrets were a matter of life and death. Larryn and Cal knew he worked for Brune, the head of Isandor’s tentacular mercenary organization, but Hasryan had never slipped a word about killing anyone. He had found people who trusted him despite his dark elven blood—actual friends!—and refused to risk that. What could ever be worth more?

Plans for the coming year? Hasryan asked, eager to push the topic in another direction.

Some. Fix the Shelter even more. Force the merchant prick using the second floor as storage to sell it to me. He motioned at one of the two towers between which the wooden Shelter had been built. He sketched a smile and ran a hand through his hair. I’d love to dedicate an entire level to the kids. They could have a safe space to play and sleep. Efua would have company her age.

You just want an excuse to adopt them all.

Larryn’s sheepish grin was all the answer Hasryan needed. He laughed, then clapped his friend on the back. I could help with the merchant. Bring my parentage’s terrible reputation to bear, make him piss his pants.

I’d love to see that. But Larryn was shaking his head. They’d had this kind of conversation before, and Hasryan guessed what Larryn would add. You know I try to stay as legal as possible with the Shelter. Wouldn’t take much for the guards to decide to shut it down and then everyone would be on the streets with no food and no roof over their head. Winter’s about to roll in. I can’t inflict that on them.

Hasryan might have laughed earlier, but Larryn's behaviour, though reckless, exceeded the typical maturity of others his age. At least when it came to the Shelter. Not even in his twenties, he’d said, and yet so many people depended on him already. They relied on him and his Shelter in a way very few had ever relied on Hasryan.

Not much we can do, then. I doubt our new friend has large enough funds to buy you a whole floor. Not if Hasryan judged by his paper-thin clothes, sewn over and over, and the lack of coat despite the chilling weather. Besides, he’d emptied his purse in front of Cal. They knew how little was available there. A cold wind swooped through the Shelter’s alley. Hasryan blew on his hands. We ought to go back inside. I wouldn’t mind the fire, and there might even be some cheese left.

With Cal around? Larryn snorted. Don’t count on it. He’d share just about anything in his life, but not cheese.

Hasryan laughed as he stood and stretched, blood warming his frozen limbs. It really was getting too late in the year for long discussions outside. Or even short ones. After shaking his legs and arms awake, he moved to the side of the roof and leaped off, glass still in hand, onto a large crate below.

Just a warm fire, then, and maybe a quick game if you’re all up for it?

You bet.

Larryn jumped after him, his landing less graceful than Hasryan’s. More alcohol and less practice. Hasryan steadied him, then smiled as they ambled to the door. Cheese didn’t matter. Neither did the fire, in truth. He only needed an evening with real friends to fulfill him.

Nevian’s back and knees hurt from scrubbing the floor. The soapy water had wrinkled his skin, and the nerves in his wrists screamed every time he clenched the minuscule brush given to him to accomplish his task. It was shorter than his index finger—not at all appropriate to clean the large storage room. If only he could use his magic to mop the floor in seconds. Master Avenazar’s orders were clear, though: no spells and no bigger brush than the one Jilssan had created. Nothing but long hours on his knees, supposed to teach him discipline. As if Nevian needed the lesson! Discipline had carried him through the rigorous training required to become an apprentice to knowledgeable Myrian masters. Discipline allowed him to tolerate Master Avenazar’s ridiculous and time-consuming demands and Master Jilssan’s subtle mockery without a word of complaint. Discipline meant that when Avenazar unwound his frustration on Nevian, shooting waves of agonizing magic into his mind, he endured the punishment then managed to crawl to his room and study through the night.

In the long run, only the studying mattered. No matter how much he hurt at the end of the day, Nevian opened his books, picked up his quill, and learned what Avenazar refused to teach him.

Nevian scrubbed harder. Discipline would transform him into the best wizard in the Myrian Empire, all odds be damned. He had laboured for too long to let anything stop him. Especially not a floor. Nevian straightened to evaluate how much remained to clean and smiled. Three-quarters done! Not so bad. He stretched his fingers, easing his cramped hands, when a shadow fell upon him.

Is this the tiniest brush ever created? What a cutie.

Nevian recognized the chirpy voice and withheld a sigh. Isra, the enclave’s only other apprentice. The one person who could strain his self-control even more than Avenazar’s abuse. He didn’t know why she pierced his defences so easily. Something in her constant good mood, in the simplicity of her entire life. Isra didn’t need discipline. She hadn’t struggled. Whenever he thought of all the opportunities offered to her, of how she wasted the gift of her circumstances, sharp and bitter pain stabbed his stomach.

Isra reached for the brush with a grin. She fit Myria’s beauty standards perfectly, as if her parents had followed a chart upon her conception. Every strand of her dark blonde hair was placed with calculated care, her nose was round and small, and cherry makeup highlighted her lips. Nevian didn’t know who she was trying to impress with that. Not him, he hoped. He had no interest in these things—not with her, and not with anyone. The thought had always made him recoil a little. Nevian gripped the tiny brush, certain she’d never give it back.

I have Master Jilssan to thank for that, he told her.

Jilssan was Isra’s tutor and a specialist in transmutation spells. Unlike Avenazar, Jilssan cared about the success of her apprentice and did her best to teach Isra every day. Nevian avoided attending their training sessions. They reminded him of his first Master. Sauria would buy him fancy quills or new tomes to celebrate his achievements. She’d shown him her secret spots outside where she both studied and caught some sun. If only she had never offended Master Avenazar, she might still be alive, and Nevian wouldn’t be paying for her mistakes. How powerful would he already have become, with her help? Better not to think of it, to just focus on the present—on what was rather than what could have been.

Isra favoured him with a bright smile. Jilssan’s really talented, isn’t she? But why use the brush? Snap your fingers, cast a spell, and finish the cleaning, no? Isra touched her chin, as though an important idea had occurred to her. You can cast spells, right? I’ve never seen you wield magic.

Nevian’s fingers clenched around the brush. He lumbered to his feet, straightening until he stood almost a full head taller than Isra. Master Avenazar forbade the use of magic to teach me the value of hard work and perseverance.

Isra snorted, then scanned the partly-cleaned floor without bothering to hide her disdain. Nevian, no one knows the meaning of hard work better than you do. Just do a spell.

She lifted a hand, readying herself to cast without waiting for him. Nevian’s heart skipped several beats. He grabbed her arm and pushed it down, stopping her before she could ruin his life.

Don’t! He ordered no magic! His voice squeaked, high-pitched and out of control.

He’ll never know. Isra peeled away his fingers one by one, her nose pinched into an exasperated expression. Come on, Nevian. This is called initiative. It’s a very useful skill for wizards, and you’ve yet to learn this one.

Master Avenazar doesn’t care for initiative. Nevian’s throat tightened, and the blood drained from his face. Isra was too carefree. No one had taught her what happened when you disobeyed. He had to make her understand. He’ll punish me.

Isra’s eyebrows quirked, then she drew back with a fit of giggles. Energy swirled around her hands, and she kicked the bucket of soapy water, spilling it across the still-dirty floor. Nevian rushed to interrupt her, but this time Isra pulled her arm out of his grasp. His heart clenched as the water fizzled, shone for a second with white energy, then vanished. The floor beneath sparkled, stainless. Nevian suppressed a groan as Isra stood with her hands on her hips, studying her handiwork. She looked so proud of herself. Didn’t she realize she had condemned him to hours of pain?

I’m doomed, Nevian whispered.

Isra laughed and slapped his shoulder. "You’re always so dramatic, Nevian! Don’t worry. If he asks, I’ll tell him I