Elana kept quiet in silent protest. It wasn’t just her aversion to the basic ‘heal’ spell—though there was that too—that had her grinding her teeth at the prospect. 

Within the estate, it was an open secret among the most trusted of the staff that the youngest of the Vanquise family was born without any mana. That didn’t mean Elana felt good about it. And here it was, being rubbed in her face that Soren had something that she didn’t—and, more importantly, that he knew it. 

She didn’t know exactly when Soren had shown up, or how he’d wound up getting pinned by Valkyrie, but there was no doubt he’d witnessed her humiliation at the training grounds. Her own admission that she didn’t have a lick of mana to her mana. Her stunning, miserable failure to mount any defense for herself. 

Hell, he’d even been calling her name at one point, for reasons beyond her, as she’d lost consciousness. And now, Antoine was getting some sadistic kick out of asking him to treat what remained of her wounds. 

A common-born squire, called upon to heal a duke’s daughter. What an absolute disgrace.

Elana tightened her grip on the blankets as his footsteps approached. She heard the rustle of fabric as he knelt at the bedside, followed by his outstretched hand in her peripheral vision. 

“Your hand, my lady,” Soren requested. 

She clenched her jaw, surrendering it only when it became clear he wasn’t going to withdraw his hand until she gave him his. His hand, callused and rough to the touch from years of hard training, wrapped gingerly around hers—as if he’d break her otherwise. 

“You don’t have to coddle me,” Elana muttered darkly. 

Soren paused before grasping her hand with a more appropriate amount of pressure. “I apologize, my lady,” he said, bowing his head. “I’ll begin, if you’re ready.”

She pressed her lips together. Any other response felt like she was asking for his help, and he was the last person she wanted to ask for that. 

“Go on,” Antoine instructed, in lieu of her. He crossed his arms as he leaned back in his chair, watching them. “Let’s see if you’ve made any progression with your magic.”

Hm? She’d never heard anyone talk about Soren’s abilities with even the faintest implication that he was suffering from lack of improvement. Was there something she was missing? 

Elana glanced at Antoine, who arched a brow at her. She suppressed the urge to scowl. 

Soren hesitated for only a moment, before invoking the spell with a quiet, firm, “Heal.”

Elana tensed as the squire’s magic set to work in her body. His spell didn’t feel like Antoine’s. If her brother’s magic was a forceful mandate, Soren’s was only a whisper of a suggestion. 

Her pain wasn’t immediately relieved, nor was her body instantly restored to perfect condition. Instead, she felt a tickle of warmth in her knees–still sore from Antoine’s abuse–and a soothing, cooling sensation in her stripped throat. 

That’s it? Elana massaged her throat with one hand, eyeing Soren skeptically. “Are you done?” she asked. “If you are, I’d like my hand back.”

A flush crept up the back of Soren’s neck, visible above his shirt-collar, and he released her hand hastily. “I am, my lady.” He cleared his throat.

She’d always assumed that Soren would excel at anything he attempted, but maybe he was more average than he seemed. So why was the famous Gerard de Vanquise so concerned with his training? 

As if giving voice to her inner thoughts, Antoine broke the silence. “All that mana, and that’s all you can do?” 

The color that had been creeping up the back of Soren’s neck made it to his cheeks, staining them a deep pink. He made no move to get up, his head bowed and eyes down. “It is."

“I’m certain I told you that spellcasting was your weak point a decade ago. I hope your swordsmanship at least has improved since then, if you’ve come no further as a mage.” Antoine said. The hint of mirth he’d had was gone, replaced by open judgment. “I’d hate to have to go back on my word and rescind the recommendation I provided for you to be admitted to the Academy.”

Elana’s head whipped to Antoine. “What did you just say?” she asked, making no effort to mask her hostility. “He’s being admitted to the Academy? He isn’t even—”

“You’re acting like this is news,” Antoine said, raising his brows. “This isn’t a new plan. It’s always been the case.”

“Whose ‘plan’ are you referring to? Yours?” Elana asked, narrowing her eyes. “Father’s?” 

Antoine looked to Soren, blinking. “You didn’t tell her?” he asked. “Seriously?”

If Soren’s cheeks were pink before, they were crimson now. She’d never seen him look so meek in his life, still on one knee, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t say a word. 

“He’s going to be registered alongside you,” Antoine explained, turning his attention back to Elana. “It has always been father’s intention to send him to the Academy with you, as your registered defender.”

“Are you still angry?” Antoine asked, exasperated as he watched Soren decimate a training dummy with his fourth wooden training sword. The rest were scattered in pieces on the ground. “Did you think you would make it all the way to the Academy without her finding out?”

“No, of course I didn’t,” Soren said, scowling darkly as he turned on Antoine. “But, respectfully, you couldn’t have found a better way? You show up unannounced, provoke Duke Vanquise, put Lady Elana through the most brutal lesson I’ve ever seen, and then provoke her? Yes, I’m irritated with you for giving away the arrangement the Duke and I made but, more than that, I don't remember serving anyone with so little common sense.”

“A page’s duty is to obediently listen—”

“I’m no longer your page, Antoine,” Soren said, pointing the training sword at him. “Nor are you still a lord of this house.”

“—and a squire’s is to know his place,” Antoine finished coolly.

The last time he’d mentored Soren, Antoine was sixteen years old and on the cusp of graduating from the Academy. He remembered Soren as a snot-nosed, wide-eyed eight-year old boy, who was thoroughly out of his depth at the Academy. He could hardly see Soren as intimidating, no matter how much he had grown in the past ten years.

“Are you done with your tantrum, now?" Antoine asked. "Time is limited, so if you’ve cooled off enough to demonstrate your combat magic without losing control of it, let’s cut the chat here.”

Soren scowled at him. “You aren’t listening.” 

“Why don’t you make me then?” Antoine asked, cracking his neck.

Elana stood outside the door of her father’s office, heart in her throat. How long had it been since the last time she’d actually knocked on these doors? She couldn’t remember the exact moment at which everything had changed, only that, after being turned away countless times with excuses like ‘I’m busy, Elana’, she’d eventually stopped trying. Any other day, she would have turned back in favor of finding her own answers–but this time, there was only one person who held them.    

Elana closed her eyes and took a deep breath to compose herself, pushing her apprehension to the side. She could do this. She rapped her knuckles twice against the door. “Your Grace,” she said, announcing her presence, “I’d like to request a word with you.”

There was a beat of silence on the other side, followed by the sound of papers shuffling. She could hear muffled words being exchanged, too softly for her to make them out, and before the door swung open. Instead of Gerard on the other side, it was Marlena that greeted her. 

“Come in, Elana.” Marlena beckoned her, stepping aside to grant her entry.  

Her mother’s expression was as chilling as usual, though for a moment Elana could swear she saw something that almost resembled concern flash through the duchess’ cold eyes. It was gone before Elana could confirm it one way or another, replaced by the same icy, expressionless mask the duchess always wore. 

That brief flicker of humanity Elana had thought she saw was probably nothing more than a trick of the light and her own wishful thinking. Neither of her parents had come to check on her in the aftermath of Antoine’s lesson. And she’d confirmed with her eyes that they’d seen her suffering at his hand. Marlena, concerned? She was deluding herself. 

Elana faltered as her mother’s eyes lingered on her own a moment too long. “I didn’t realize I was interrupting.”

“That may be so, but it was well timed,” Marlena said, glancing back at Gerard. “Your father and I were at an impasse.”

An impasse? Elana’s gaze flickered between her parents, both of whom looked as stone-faced and collected as ever. It didn’t seem she’d interrupted any sort of contentious fight, so what was going on? She almost regretted not lingering longer outside the doors to find out.  

“Marlena.” Gerard nodded towards the door. “Can you give us a moment alone?”

Marlena’s eyes narrowed with an expression Elana couldn’t read. “Don’t say a word about it, Gerard,” she warned, turning away. “I’ll be downstairs then, in the reading room. We’ll take this up again later.”