Chapter 24

The sage tunic and gray leggings I brought from home are far more comfortable than the gambeson vest I wore the day prior.

I don't need armor today. Not when the weapons we'll be wielding come from inside us, rather than from the steel sheathed at our hips. And perhaps the thought is foolish—definitely foolish—but something tells me the Black Art wouldn't actually hurt me. At least not so long as we're fighting on the same side. Once Legion is eradicated…

I braid my snowy blonde hair into a thick rope and head to the dining hall to nourish myself before what is likely to be another exhaustive day of training. The assortment of food does not disappoint, and I help myself to a serving of eggs, ham, and a few cubes of fruit before washing it down with a couple glasses of water. When I finish, I gather my dishes to drop them in the wash basin but pause when I hear hushed voices bickering from the kitchen.

"Do you feel it's the right thing to do?" River asks, her gentle voice pained with concern.

The low growl that responds is undeniably Sin's. "It doesn't matter how I feel about it."

An annoyed sigh—River's. "Ludicrous! It does matter. Your word is law—if you don't want to do something, then bloody say you aren't doing it. You're the Black Art, Singard, you were chosen. It's about time you start acting like it."

"That's exactly what I'm doing," he snaps. "I'm protecting my land."

A long pause passes between them, and I hold my breath, still clutching the dirty dishes in my hands.

"But are you protecting your people?" River finally asks, her tone rhetorical.

Sin lets out an exasperated sigh, and I can almost hear his hand running through his hair, a habit I've noticed the Black Art favors when stressed.

"We have company," he grumbles.

And now I feel it.

The pit of my stomach tightens like sodden clothing being wrung out to dry—the tethering spell reacting to the proximity of its creator. Sin feels it too then, the tugging, if he knew I was here despite my complete silence.

Swallowing my pride, I round the corner into the kitchen. Sin gives me a quick once over, his expression unreadable, before turning and leaving through the door at the back of the kitchen.

"Is everything alright?" I ask the castle's housekeeper.

River shakes her head and tosses her long, scarlet braid over her shoulder. "I'm not so sure it is. That boy—that damned boy—he wants to do the right thing, but he's as stubborn as his father. Maybe more so. And it makes me furious because he knows better. He knows what is right." She excuses herself and hurries out to the hall, leaving a trail of anger and annoyance behind with every thudding step.

Leaving through the same door as Sin, a private entrance for the kitchen staff, I spill into the eastern courtyard. I scan the mass of uniformed men scattered around the barracks but find no sign of the dark warlord.

Fine. If I'm to be branded like property, I might as well use it to my advantage. I close my eyes and focus on the permanent knot tethered deep in the pits of my stomach—the anchor Sin cast there when he marked me with his signature black heart.

Angling my body one way then the next, I follow the tugging of the invisible rope to the edge of the Spiritwood Forest, the portion of the woods inside Scarwood's impressive barrier walls. I find him facing a small pond, the water a glass mirror reflecting a kaleidoscope of forest colors.

I cross my arms. "Avoiding me already, and I haven't even dueled you into embarrassment yet."

He doesn't flinch at my voice, as if he already sensed my arrival. "Just testing your ability to find me through that tether is all."

I don't need to read his collective to hear the lie in his words. Whatever he and River were discussing earlier has clearly upset him. "I apologize for overhearing earlier. It was not my intention to eavesdrop."

The Black Art shakes his head as if to dismiss it altogether. "There was nothing more to be said anyway."

I've always felt it a violation of privacy to tap into one's collective, but curiosity consumes the better part of me, and I scrape a mental finger across his mind, digging in a nail just deep enough to peek in.

I nearly vomit as my gut suddenly twists itself inside out.

Claws rake down the lining of my stomach, threatening to disembowel me, and just as I'm certain my insides are about to spill from my gut, his voice snaps me back to the present.

"Get out of my head," he snarls.

I snatch my collective back at once. "I'm sorry," I blurt out.

Sin runs a hand through his dark hair, sending the layers falling unevenly over his white flowy shirt. The stark color of his top accentuates his deep bronzed skin and bright emerald eyes, and his fitted black trousers hug his trim waist. He turns to face me, and with a sharp exhale and a clap of his hands, he says, "Let's get started."

"Should I grab a twig and start practicing how to wave my wrists the correct way, Your Grace?"

He tosses his head back in laughter—real laughter—and I smile to myself, hoping the joke will help ease the suffering of the burning man inside of him, even if for just a few moments.

Ever consumed with the feelings of others. I am a terrible bloodwitch.

"It was for your own safety," he says, grinning at what I'm sure is a mental image of me waving the broom around like a lunatic.

"Maybe today I need to use pretend magic for your safety," I taunt.

"If you're going to be talking like that, you better be prepared to show up."

I dip my knees in a mock curtsy. "I will go easy on you, Your Grace."

"I was thinking we could warm up by channeling our magics together—get a feel of each other before we begin."

Shutting my eyes, I raise my arms in front of me, my elbows slightly bent and my palms facing him. I roll my shoulders a few times, ordering my body to relax. Focusing on my feet, I sink my sandals into the grass, grounding myself with the soil. I breathe in and out through closed lips, stilling my mind, and as if on cue, my forearms begin to warm.

The heat spreads to my wrists, pooling into my outstretched palms, and shoots into my fingertips. I curve my hands towards my chest, holding the magic close to me for a moment and then push it away to merge with his. My power mulls over Sin's, tasting it, flirting with it. Our collectives take turns dipping into one another and exploring all the pockets of the other's source.

Sin's magic is cold—a blanket of snow on my chest, the nip of winter's wind on my cheeks—and the starkness of fresh mint coats my tongue. When I open my eyes and find his already watching me intently, I force my face to remain expressionless.

It was only the week prior we were flexing our magics and trying to overpower the other, before we had to cease fire, avoiding an explosion bigger than anything his magic or mine could accomplish alone.

An eruption that would have surely resulted in one of our deaths.

My warmer power skates around his, curious of its icy slopes, and scratches at its boundary. Our collectives flirt across the seam dividing his from mine, and suddenly, that line erupts into a white-hot flame, sending a lick of desire straight to my thighs. With a shared look, we drop our collectives and lower our hands, the magic sizzling out from both our fingertips.

"That was something," he murmurs, the sound breathless.

"That was… something," I agree, not having a better word to describe the surge of power we both felt when our magics tangled like new lovers lost in silken sheets.

Legion doesn't stand a chance.

"Let's duel. You wield, I'll shield," he says.

I back up several steps, creating an appropriate distance between us. Sin lowers into a defensive stance, bending at the knee slightly, and nods for me to begin. My collective bends to my will eagerly now, having been warmed up with our exercise. I weigh the magic in my hands, ensuring it is restrained—not strong enough to inflict any real damage if he somehow fails to block my assault—but strong enough for him to test his shields. Confident I'm in control, I take a steadying breath and push off a golden orb.

Sin catches it with his ward immediately, his barrier stretched in the space between his palms, and my orb bounces off it and disintegrates into nothing. Dragging his tongue across the fronts of his teeth, he flashes a devastating grin and motions with two fingers for me to continue.

You want more, Blackheart?

I chuck another, and another, and another at him, each one hurtling towards him with more speed than the last, and each one disintegrating as it collides with his conjured ward. We continue this for a while longer before reversing roles. Sin's magic comes in rapid spurts, its surface slick with ice, and slams into my resistance again and again, coating my ward in layers of frost and peppery sweetness.

He casts from both sides of his body, and sometimes across it, forcing me to leap back and forth to concentrate my shield where his magic is about to hit. When he finally lowers his hands, my back is slick where rivulets of sweat bead across my neck and down my shoulder blades.

"Wield again. But this time, stop holding out on me," he barks, wiping his own sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.

I shake out my arms that are now rigid from casting and shoot him a stern look. "You know I have to."

"Says who?"

"Says who? Says you and your stupid law!" My blood begins to heat again, but this time, it's not in anticipation of dueling.

"I'm not asking you to kill anyone. I'm only asking you to embrace your power, and not this weakened version of it."

"And what if you miss the block and I hurt you? I lose control and don't stop?"

The Black Art's stare strips me bare, and dropping his voice, he asks, "Do you think that will happen? Say you accidentally hurt me… do you think you would spiral out of control and kill me, and kill the entire godsdamned kingdom while you're at it?"

A loose breath rattles out of me, and I shake my head, not in answer but in disbelief he is asking at all. "It has never mattered to you or your kingdom before," I spit. "You have only ever assumed for us, and insisted on our extinction on the basis of legends and lies. So don't ask me today, Your Grace, if I think I can control it." My words drip with venom—heavy, furious, and positively lethal.

Sin looks at me for a long moment, a calm expression on his face, but his jaw taut and his lips thinned. And then with predatory swiftness, he slinks back into a crouch, raising his arms as if preparing to take me on hand-to-hand. All traces of pleasantry vanish from his voice when he orders, "All of it. I can handle your power, even if it does come from a filthy bloodwitch."

Chaos explodes inside me.

My fingertips fade into golden wisps of pure, raw power. Pouring all my focus and intention into each thrust, I send waves of destruction rippling towards him, smashing into his walls again and again, each one denting them a little farther.

I'm barely aware of Sin, my power swelling up inside me like a raging tsunami, drowning out all thoughts of reason. He dashes left and right, reinforcing his shield, trying to hold it steady against my wrathful wake.

A steady roar pierces my ears as my fury rams into his barrier again, and it crumbles beneath my collective. I pull it back, and with the ferocity of the Howling Sea and my own ringing cry of anguish and resentment and vengeance, I hurl myself at his defense again. My blood thickens when I hear it snap, and the screaming—my screaming—drowns out his own holler of pain, Sin's face contorting with the impact of my rage.

I double over with the sudden surge of him.