A handkerchief eclipsed the light of the lantern in Soren's hand, leaving only the faintest ring of warmth cast at his feet. His disapproval was written all over his face. There was no getting around it. Any comparison between the two of them would find her lacking. If Marlena's training hadn't so adamantly focused on breaking her of the habit, Elana would have scowled right back. 

“My lady,” he said, gentle but stern. “Listening at doors is a rather crass habit.”

“And?" He was the last person she needed a lecture from. "What business is it of yours?" 

Soren's brows knitted and he sighed, a long-suffering sigh. "Lady Elana..."

"Are you going to alert my father?” Elana asked, pursing her lips. 

Unlike Soren, even with blood on her side, Elana was a stunning disappointment. Her father, who was granted a dukedom after becoming the Northern Kingdom’s most decorated war hero, a SS ranked dark mage. Her mother, High Lady of the Eastern Kingdom and a grade A botanical mage in her own right. 

All six of Elana’s former siblings had been born with untold levels of mana potential. And then, there was Elana. Even by commoners standards, she was a staggering failure. And, as the blood-related daughter of the legendary Duke Gerard de Vanquise, she’d never been evaluated by commoners’ standards.

She wouldn’t have been surprised if her father had kept Soren under his wing, despite his affiliation with Antoine, with the intention of adopting him into the family. Gerard de Vanquise needed an heir. 

With Antoine being expelled from the family and Elana being… Elana, Soren was a reasonable alternative.

As if he could read the trajectory of her thoughts, Soren sighed again, loudly. He closed his eyes, raking a hand through his mussed hair. He usually kept it orderly, but his unkempt waves were on full display. Judging by the damp roots of his hair, a deep shade of slate akin to the blue of a storm, he was just getting in from a late night of training.

He rubbed the back of his neck and, after a long, pregnant pause, sighed again. “No, my lady,” he said, shaking his head. “So long as you return to your quarters.”

Her parents' muffled voices were no longer audible. Whatever it was they'd been fighting about, it was over now. All she’d gleaned was that she was, once more, a source of contention for the duke and duchess. Nothing new. Elana took a long, deep breath to calm herself, tamping down the sharp twinge in her chest. Soren was the last person she wanted to be asking her questions out of concern. 

“Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’ll go back.”

Her brow furrowed as she waited for him to get out of her way, so she could step out of the alcove. But he didn’t. Instead, he was searching her face. Elana schooled her expression into a practiced mask of indifference. 

Illuminated by the narrow ring of light still visible from the base of his lantern, he almost looked like a stranger. The familiar lavender haze was painted with the warm orange glow of the fire, robbing him of his familiarity for a brief moment. He’d always had uselessly beautiful eyes. 

It was just one more thing to add to the list of things she envied about him, in stark contrast to the eerie yellow of her own eyes—inherited from her father, who at least had the striking black hair to pull it off. Elana’s was a mundane, mousy brown. 

But dwelling on the differences between them and the ways in which he outshone her wasn’t going to change anything. If she’d learned anything in the past several years, it was that. 

And he still wasn’t budging. 

Elana straightened her spine, clearing her throat. “I said, I’ll go back.”

Soren didn’t move. She gave him a look, but he simply raised his eyebrows in silent challenge. 

“What do you want?” 

“I’m just concerned for you, my lady,” he said, searching her face. “If you keep listening at doors, you’re bound to hear something you aren’t meant to.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, but you can keep your concern,” she said dryly. 

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Elana’s composure threatened to slip. “You have a lot of nerve for someone who’s still only an attendant.”

“I’ve been told I have a lot of nerve for someone who’s only a squire as well,” he added, unhelpfully. 

“Look,” Elana began, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her mother told her it wasn’t dignified, but there would be no controlling her expression right now if she didn’t. “It’s not as if there’s anything left to hear anyway. Get out of my way, and I’ll promptly return to my room.”

“Of course you will,” Soren said, finally stepping aside. He gestured for her to join him. “I’ll escort you there myself, after all.”

“You know it’s poor etiquette for a man to be alone with a lady after sundown." Frustration knit her brows a second time. 

“It’s worse etiquette for a lady to skulk around closed doors, listening in on private conversations,” he said, daringly casual.

Elana shot him another look. “This and that are two different things.”

“Fine.” Soren shrugged haplessly. “I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

Elana looked at him for a long while as they walked side by side, but he kept his gaze firmly ahead, with an expression so peaceful, so unperturbed that it was impossible to get a read on him. “Fine.”

Elana was struggling her way through breakfast. It was proving a challenge to keep her eyes open at the table, despite the obvious tension in the air. Conversation among the Vanquise family had always been minimal, even at mealtimes, but today was especially silent. Elana pushed her food around her plate, trying to stay awake. It was rare that Elana slept through the night, but last night she’d barely slept at all. 

Her nightmares had always been bad, but last night’s were worse than usual. She couldn’t remember the specifics, but she was certain she’d died at least fifty different ways by daybreak. The average night she went through maybe ten. Even for her, last night’s dreamscape had been an exceptionally shitty showing. She blamed it on the sudden, unexplained shift in the duchess’ behavior.

Elana sighed into her tea. She wanted to ask her mother about yesterday, but, even if she managed to find the right words, would she be given an honest answer? Or would the duchess deflect and change the subject, as she always did?

For better or worse, her father didn’t give her further time to stew in those thoughts. 

The duke’s deep voice broke the silence. “Elana.” 

Elana jerked her head up, eyes wide. She crumpled the napkin in her lap as her palms broke out in a cold sweat. When was the last time she’d heard her father address her directly? “Yes?”   

“Your summons from the Royal Magic Academy has arrived,” he said. “Your attendance will be mandated this year.”

“This year?” Elana asked, freezing in place. There were only three months left until year’s end, and they were telling her now? Sure, the summons weren’t unexpected–she’d known her whole life that they were coming. 

But a lifetime of preparation, with such little lead up to the final event? Was this another nightmare in-progress?

The duke’s eyes, the same deep ocher as her own, narrowed as he looked at her. Iron-faced. Elana glanced at the duchess, who was watching her with an equally inscrutable expression. Neither of her parents betrayed any hint of what was going on beyond their stone-faced facades. 

She swallowed. “When, exactly?”

This time, it was the duchess who spoke. “You’ll begin in three weeks' time."

What? But that was absurd. Elana dropped her gaze, staring at a fixed point on the table. Three weeks. She could damn near hear how loudly her heart was hammering in her chest. Three weeks was nothing.

“You’ll be taking the placement exam next week,” the duchess said. She was using the same clinically detached voice she used for Elana’s lessons. “Do you understand?”

“Marlena,” Gerard said, shooting a warning look in his wife’s direction before turning his gaze and attention back over to Elana. “Elana de Vanquise, look at me,” he said, his voice brusque when she didn't immediately comply. “Is this something you feel prepared to undertake?”

Elana blanched. She didn’t need to look to know what kind of face her mother was making. The duchess had dedicated years of her life to preparing Elana for exactly this task.

“Yes,” she lied, looking up to meet her father’s gaze. “Of course I do, Your Grace.”

“You’re ready?” Her father asked, pushing harder this time. He was studying Elana so intently that she thought he might see right through her. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me with confidence that you are?”

Elana’s mind raced. What did he want from her? Did he want a different answer from her, or was this some sort of test? This time, she glanced in Marlena’s direction, looking for some sort of hint or direction. But Marlena’s gaze was as intense and inscrutable as Gerard’s. 

Was she prepared? What kind of question was that? 

She had to be. There wasn’t an alternative.