Chapter 5

Kit

"Concentrate!" Tavias's command pierces through me as I stare at the small pile of dried twigs laid out atop packed snow. The same ones I've been trying to set on fire for the past three hours.

Since I set my sleeping pallet on fire while dreaming two nights ago, we are all quite certain that I have an affinity for the element—and my inability to produce so much as a spark on command is grating on Tavias's nerves. That, and the fact that Quinton and Sethis both took off without telling him. Or anyone. Two days, and neither have returned. The tension in camp is so high, it's a miracle the whole place hasn't exploded into tiny shards of rock and ice.

Probably because all the other dragons can actually control their magic, and I've just not gotten around to setting off an explosion by accident. Which is why Tavias made me hike over a mile away from camp to practice summoning this bloody illusive power that is currently more a hindrance than help. Or, more accurately, an utterly unpredictable disaster. At this point, I think having some water for Cyril to use to douse any flames I produce is a better use of time and effort.

"A prism," Tavias repeats the same command he's issued multiple times. "Picture a prism and siphon your power through it."

Standing a few paces away, Cyril says nothing. He is here for safety, ready to protect me from the world, or the world from me. Whichever comes up first.

Tavias shifts his feet. "Clear your mind, Kitterny. Concentrate. Nothing but the power matters."

My entire body strains with effort, but it's like trying to make a snowball of air. Nothing happens. I don't even feel my magic's existence, much less find something to grab onto or siphon or channel or whatever other word Tavias wants to use. I feel nothing. Except frustration. That I feel in heaps.

A frigid gust of wind bites at my face, nipping my scales. It was miserable enough to experience the cold as a human, but as a dragon each sensation is magnified tenfold. I think I can hear each snowflake as it falls. The rutting little things melt on my scales just long enough to snake down beneath them and then freeze again with the next gust of wind. A maddening cycle of melt and freeze that's as grating as Tavias's short temper.

I wipe my hand over the scales on my temples, brushing away the tiny ice crystals.

"Bloody stars, Kitterny," Tavias barks as if I'd walked away from the exercise instead of just wiping my face for a moment. "Stop fooling about. Your life may—will—depend on your ability to harness your magic."

I spin toward him, my hands on my hips. "I'm trying."

"Not hard enough."

"I'm bloody trying, alright? How am I supposed to clear my mind when every nerve inside me is howling for attention?" I shout back at him, my frustration boiling over into fury. At this moment, I hate everything about Tavias. The way his silhouette is embraced by the sun, his broad shoulders a carved masterpiece of perfection, the way his cloak billows behind him, even the way the snow lands on his long lashes and chiseled jaw. I hate that his magic is at the tips of his fingers, that he can light the tiny twigs or great oaks with barely a thought.

I hate that he can command armies and I can't even command myself.

"Are you asking or whining?" Tavias demands. "Because it sounds like whining to me."

"You know what sounds like whining to me?" I growl, my teeth bared. "A Massa'eve general with centuries of training taking out his own shortcomings on a novice. And yet, here we are, aren't we?"

Streaks of lightning flash along Tavias's scales as they always do when he is about to lose his temper. "You think this is about me?"

"Is it not? Quinton. Sethis. Both gone off to do stars know what. You don't know where they are. You lost a quarter of your command." I yell the accusations into his face, though I know it's wrong. But I hurt and I want to hurt him back. So I grab for the words that I know in my soul will hit their mark. Will make him bleed. "You couldn't keep your fighter under rein. You. And now you are taking your rutting failures out on the one person here who can't fight back."

The tightening of Tavias's jaw is the only warning I get before he grabs the back of my neck and shoves me face first into a snowbank. Snow fills my mouth and nostrils, minute icy pinpricks hissing free from their crystalline form, but somehow managing to choke off my air at the same time. Snow fills my ears too, muffling the sounds around me—but the sting of betrayal cuts clearly enough through it.

I struggle to get up, but only manage to wriggle horridly cold snow between the layers of my clothes, freezing clumps pressing into my skin. My new dragon strength is no match against the trained warrior, who presses my face harder into the snow.

"Stop it," I try to yell.

Tavias drops his knee into my back, pinning me to the snow. It hurts. A lot.

"You wanted help clearing your mind," he growls. "This should focus you."

"Let me up! I can't breathe."

"Clearly, you can. You're not even scratching the surface of what you can do, Kitterny. It's as though you've decided you can't and now can't be bothered to put in the effort."

"Stop it," Cyril says. "Tavias, that's enough."

"No," Tavias snaps toward his twin, and there is something dangerous in his voice now. "You get no say, Cyril. Not unless you take all the say."

"This isn't the time for -"

"Take the rutting crown back. Or else shut up." Tavias yanks his attention back to where he holds me pinned to the ground. "Don't like the snow pushing into your face? Is it hard to inhale? Then melt the damn snow and you can breathe all you like. It's snow, not a rutting iceberg."