Elana kept quiet, pressing her lips firmly together in silent protest. It wasn’t just her aversion to the basic ‘heal’ spell—thought there was that too—that had her glaring daggers at Soren. 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. Whether or not Soren had been among that group to begin with, he was one of them now.
She didn’t know when he’d shown up, but he’d witnessed her humiliation at the training grounds. And now, Antoine was getting some sadistic kick out of asking him to treat what remained of her wounds. Elana kept her eyes on the floor. 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.
Elana 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 if she didn’t. 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 said.
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.”
Elana said nothing.
“Go on,” Antoine instructed. He crossed his arms as he leaned back in his chair, watching them. “Let’s see if you’ve made any progression.”
“Heal.” Soren’s incantation was quiet, but firm.
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 a whisper of suggestion. Her pain wasn’t immediately relieved and her body 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.
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.
It felt good to see the golden boy off his game. She’d always assumed that he excelled at anything he attempted, but maybe he was more average than he seemed.
“All that mana, and that’s all you can do?” Antoine asked coolly.
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. “Yes, Lord Antoine.
“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 in his eyes was gone, replaced by open judgment. “I’d hate to have to go back on my word and rescind your admission 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—”
“Why do you sound so surprised?” Antoine asked, frowning. “This has always been the plan.”
“Whose ‘plan’ are you referring to? Yours?” Elana asked, narrowing her eyes. “Father’s?”
Antoine looked to Soren, blinking curiously. “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.”
Comments (0)
See all