by Coco Ma
“Are you really?”
He smiled sweetly, dimples and all. “Of course.” He peeked into his hands again and then slowly unfurled his fingers. To Asterin’s astonishment, a baby bird quivered in his palms, nothing more than a tiny ball of brown fuzz. It peeped up at her and chirruped bravely. “Nice defense spell on the window, by the way. If we hadn’t made it inside a second sooner, you might have decapitated both me and this little guy.”
This is an injustice, Asterin couldn’t help but think, glancing between the baby bird and Quinlan’s dimples. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I can’t believe I’m the one apologizing in this situation. And you still haven’t explained why you even triggered my spell.”
“I was just jogging through the gardens when I saw this little guy stuck on the railing of the balcony below your window.” He paused. “And then I, uh, figured I’d might as well pop by to see if you were in. To say hello. To you. I mean, you to the bird.”
Asterin’s eyes narrowed. “And how exactly did you know that it was my window?”
Quinlan shifted his feet helplessly. “I don’t know, I just counted all of the windows from outside. Your chambers are on the fourth floor, facing the gardens …” He trailed off. “I am beginning to realize that I sound like a stalker.” At Asterin’s unimpressed eyebrow raise, he ducked his head. “I apologize. It was instinctual, not intentional, I swear.”
“Stalking me, you mean?” she quipped.
“Of course not! I meant spatial awareness.” He hid his face behind his wrists and peeked out one eye at her, the baby bird still hopping around in his cupped palms. “Please forgive me?”
Asterin sighed through her nose, trying desperately to maintain a stern expression. “You’re still dripping on my rug.”
“That, I can fix.” Quinlan waved his hand and a warm wind wrapped itself around them in a hurricane of heat, whipping her hair into the air. The wind thrust her forward, causing her to stumble into his chest. He smirked at her and held her close, the scent of ash and smoke and northern air washing over her. One hand still cupping the baby bird and the other heavy on her waist, he leaned down, lips brushing her ear. “Feeling a little warm?” he whispered roughly, his tone sending involuntary shivers down her spine.
Asterin scowled and shoved him away, hating the smug quirk of his lips, the way her blood thrummed. The heat died down, leaving his clothes and her rug completely dry. She narrowed her eyes, face flushed, telling herself it was from the temperature. “You’d do well to remember your place.”
“As?”
“As a soldier. Under my command. You aren’t even allowed in my rooms.”
“Who’s not allowed in your rooms?” Orion asked, nudging his head into the bedchamber. His eyes landed on them, widening at Quinlan. “Who in hell are you?”
Quinlan raised an eyebrow. “Who in hell are you?”
Orion marched over, jostling Asterin behind him. “I’m Orion Galashiels, Princess Asterin’s Royal Guardian.”
Quinlan stepped closer with all the bravado in the world, chin high. “I’m Quinlan Holloway, Princess Asterin’s …” He trailed off, glancing at her for help.
Asterin simply folded her arms across her chest. “Court jester.”
“Wow.” Quinlan backed down with a wince. “Ouch.”
When Orion turned to her, she said, “While you were away, a present arrived from the Queen of Eradore. Two new Elites. I know Quinlan doesn’t look like much, but his cousin Rose is fairly competent, trust me.”
Orion didn’t look too happy about the news, but then his boots crunched. He zeroed in on the glass still littering the carpet, and then the broken window. “Why …?”
“Don’t ask.” Quinlan passed the bird to Asterin without explanation and pulled an affinity stone out of his pocket. All at once, the shattered glass hovered into the air, glittering like frost, and then each piece ignited a fiery yellow. The glowing pieces whizzed high above their heads, amassing into a clump, fingers of blue flame licking at the ceiling but only melting the glass. Finally, Quinlan let the clump fall, catching it neatly in his hand and offering it to Asterin. “A paperweight for you, Your Highness. Careful, it’s still hot.” An understatement—when she held her hand over the glass, it rivaled the heat of a bonfire.
“You’re a fire-wielder,” Orion realized.
Quinlan bowed theatrically. “House of the Fox, at your service.”
Fox. So fire is his most powerful affinity, Asterin thought. After seeing how masterfully he controlled his fire affinity, she couldn’t help but admit her curiosity. Fire was the most difficult element to control, after all.
“At your service, my ass,” Orion said, and Asterin noticed that the usual twinkle in his glacier-blue eyes had gone flat. “Get out of here.”
Asterin gaped. “Orion.”
“You said it yourself, Asterin. He’s not even allowed in your rooms.”
“Unless I give him permission,” she retorted. Why am I defending him? She blamed it on Orion’s uncharacteristic incivility. “Quinlan, my sword, please. By the dresser. I’ve got some ass to kick.”
The Eradorian obliged. As he passed her Amoux, he gestured to her dressing gown and asked, “Aren’t you going to change first?”
“Nope,” Asterin said, scarcely noticing the strangled noise her reply choked out of him, already focusing on the task at hand. There was no way in hell she’d let Orion beat her—not now.
Her Guardian gave her a hard look. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
She pretended not to understand his double meaning, only crooking two fingers at him in invitation.
He scoffed, taking his time unsheathing Orondite, holding his blade loose in his grip. That was her first warning—that easy stance meant trouble. She stilled her breathing, Amoux steady and solid as she waited for the spring to recoil. For that single drop of rain to split the surface of the lake. For his telltale inhale—and there.
Orion shot forward, faster than a jungle cat, his sword cleaving through the air. She heard Quinlan suck in a breath. But Asterin was even faster than her mentor, Amoux nothing more than a blur. The cut that could have taken her hand off slashed through nothing. Orion drew back to right his blunder and she met him without hesitation. The collision of their swords nearly knocked her over—and before she could regain control, Orondite hooked around Amoux and wrenched upward. Tears pricked her eyes at the pain that shot through her wrist.
Focus.
Her Guardian drove his sword into hers again and again, pummeling her defenses as fast as she could set them up. She scrambled over the pile of pillows that Orion had abandoned on her floor earlier, struggling to recover from his attacks.
“What do you think happens when you put your trust into people you don’t truly know?” Orion asked, hacking a pillow in half with an effortless slice and a shower of feathers. “Like your father did, all those years ago?”
Asterin swallowed. “That has nothing to do with this.”
Slice. Two pillows sheared apart. “Of course it does.”
With a snarl, she hurled herself forward and thrust. Sloppy. Orion parried her easily and bore down upon her blade with cruel, crushing strength. The strain on her wrist raked a groan from her throat. A chilling wind gusted through the broken window at her back. Her feet slid across the floor and an idea flitted through her mind.
“What do you think happens when you don’t listen to the people you should trust?” Orion demanded. “The people who will stop at nothing to protect you when others betray you?”
She looked up, eyes blazing, inches from his face. “Door.”
His ire flickered. “What?”
Asterin withdrew just as suddenly as Orion had at her door only a few days earlier. Except there was no door between them to crash into now—only air. As he staggered forward, he just managed to wrestle back his balance.
But now she claimed the upper hand.
She met Orondite with fluid grace, moving like water, striking like fire, and fighting with all the ice she held within herself. She remembered the feeling of the omnistone’s power singing through her body, now felt that power within herself as she delivered each blow with pristine accuracy and merciless strength. Sweat dripped down her neck, yet she did not waver. All she felt was the calm in her mind as she sought out his weak spot—one chink, that was all she needed.
When she found it, she was more than ready. Her Guardian swung high, and she dove beneath Orondite’s rapid slash, coming up behind him. Keep your guard lower next time, she thought, and slammed the flat of her blade into the back of his legs. His knees buckled, and she darted around to his front, swift as an asp, springing into the air and delivering a final kick to his chest.
Orion toppled over and smashed into the floor on his side, skidding to a halt near the wall. He rolled limply onto his back, clinging Orondite, his chest heaving. When Asterin walked over and settled Amoux against his throat, his jaw had gone slack.
“I trusted you to teach me to fight, all those years ago,” Asterin whispered. “How to protect myself. So that if I ever had to fight—”
“You would win,” Orion finished, staring up at the ceiling. A slow grin crept onto his face. “I guess we both succeeded.”
“I guess we did.”
For the second time in her life, Asterin pulled her Guardian to his feet.
And then she grabbed Garringsford’s firestone from her bedside table. Breathing in through her nose, she drew from the stone’s power. When she exhaled, the tiniest spark skittered to life across her open palm.
Orion’s eyes widened. “How …?”
“It’s all because of the omnistone,” Asterin said softly. “I couldn’t have done it without Rose and Quinlan’s help.” She turned to Quinlan, the baby bird still perched on his shoulder. “And for that, I’m thankful.” She waved Amoux at the Eradorian. “Well? What did you think of our little battle, my Elite jester?”
Quinlan’s indigo eyes glimmered with a new kind of respect, undimmed by her jibe. “Just remind me to never find myself on the wrong end of your sword.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Quinlan’s first three weeks in Axaris flew by. Between training, guard duty, and tormenting the Princess of Axaria in his every spare moment, he hadn’t touched his magic since the day he had burst through her window—and now it nagged at him, an incessant itch. Little spurts of magic weren’t enough. He needed to let go, but even in the deepest corners of the palace gardens, he never knew who might be watching.
“Oi, Quinlan, coming to dinner?” Gino sang as he buttoned his jacket. Even in the dim light of the barracks, his spiked hair glistened with a copious amount of gel. Every morning, Gino woke before everyone else, just so he could hog the mirror. The other three male Elites already waited by the door—gangly Jack, with his easy, boisterous laugh; silver-tongued Casper, whose words were as sharp as the two ruby-hilted knives that always hung low at his hips; and grizzly bearded Old Silas, who Quinlan learned had only just turned thirty, but simply “Old” because he was the oldest Elite.
Quinlan shot them a grin from his bunk, hiding his jittering fingers in his lap. “You go ahead.”
Jack blew him a kiss. “Bye, dear. Don’t play with the stove, and remember, bedtime is at eight!”
Quinlan rolled his eyes. “So, light your bed on fire by eight. Got it.”
Casper whistled. “Listen, Quinlan, there’s no need for arson. If you want Jack in your bed so badly, just ask him.”
Quinlan raised a certain finger, and Casper’s uniform burst into flames. Old Silas just shook his head while the other boys fell over themselves in laughter as Casper yelped and dove to the floor, rolling and batting at himself to extinguish the flames before realizing they hadn’t actually caused any harm.
“You sly fox,” Casper said, grinning despite himself. He was the craftiest of the bunch and the only other male fire-wielder, and Quinlan had taken to him quickly. “The last time I tried that trick I nearly burned a man to a crisp. How did you do it?”
Quinlan winked. “Trade secret.”
Gino’s stomach interrupted with a deafening growl. “Food. Now.”
The boys jostled each other to the door, still hooting, signature red cloaks billowing. Their guffaws faded and left Quinlan, finally, to the silence.
Three weeks had passed, and Quinlan still didn’t have one of those damned cloaks—one side a deep crimson and the other sable black, marking him as an “official” Elite Royal Guard. Rose had been presented one a few days ago by Captain Covington after she had recited more poisons and their antidotes than all the other Elites combined, mended a shattered leg, and disarmed four patrol guards on the Wall from three hundred feet away with specialized arrows. His cousin had only rubbed it in his face about a dozen times so far.
For a moment, Quinlan simply closed his eyes and basked in the solitude, the crackle of the hearth his only companion. He loosed an exhausted sigh. His tailbone still ached from a week ago, when Princess Asterin had dropped by during a combat session and volunteered to be his sparring partner. Then, in front of everyone, she had knocked him, quite literally, onto his ass. Ever since, she’d “taken pity” on him—by forcing him to practice with her every morning. She’d gone after Rose, too, but even as children, Rose had always bested Quinlan in both hand-to-hand combat and swordplay. After a single duel, Asterin had grudgingly deemed his cousin’s skills adequate.
Quinlan had never felt comfortable with any weapon save for his magic and the three priceless Ignatian daggers Rose’s mother had gifted to him on his thirteenth birthday. Their iridescent blades were ribbed with countless folds from the deepest of the Ignatian forges, and he had yet to find something they couldn’t slice through. Unfortunately, his new mentor expected him to demonstrate proficiency fighting with any weapon or object.
Even a carrot? he had asked, and the challenge had shone in her eyes before he’d even perceived it as one. That had been an interesting morning.
While he humiliated himself in carrotplay, Asterin had admitted to him that she still struggled to summon the other elements—but the omnistone had done its job, awakening her dormant powers. Now it was just a matter of training. Quinlan offered to help, but for whatever reason, Asterin was hell-bent on practicing in private.
Privacy. He definitely lacked that here. Looking around the male Elite barracks, complete with five neatly made bunks, a chest for possessions at the foot of each, a table in the center covered in a mess of playing cards and the odd bits and bobs the boys used for betting, and the adjoined communal bathing chambers, Quinlan couldn’t help but wish for home. Home meant his own chambers. He hadn’t shared sleeping quarters since studying at the Academia Principalis in Eradoris. And although he’d made easy friends with his fellow soldiers, they were just so bloody noisy. The girls’ barracks were next door, and Rose constantly complained that they could hear the boys yelling through the wall, but Quinlan hadn’t ever once heard even a peep from their side.
Ten soldiers in total made up the Axarian Princess’s Elite Royal Guard. Only the Immortals knew what division he and Rose would have ended up in if those two spots hadn’t been open—though, knowing Rose, she’d likely planned it right from the very start. While the boys had Old Silas, the girls had the youngest Elite—a fierce fifteen-year-old named Alicia, who Rose said could fight better unarmed in pitch darkness than most of the palace guards could in broad daylight. Aside from Rose and Alicia, there was the ever-silent Nicole, with her cool gray eyes and a sheaf of black hair that fell past her waist. She spoke twice a day if they were lucky, and Quinlan constantly forgot about her existence—at least, until she had her blade pinned against his throat. Laurel was Nicole’s bright-eyed opposite—bubbly and chatty, distracting any one of them with her jokes and charm. Meanwhile, she
was likely thieving away valuables or weapons from their person at every opportunity, that lovely smile never faltering. Finally, there was Hayley, the oldest of the females. According to Jack, she only had three facial expressions—impassive, irritated, and smug. From what Quinlan had seen so far, Jack hadn’t been exaggerating in the slightest. She had also come this close to decapitating Quinlan once with—of all things—her shield.
From beneath his pillow, Quinlan pulled out the little silk pouch holding the omnistone, turning it over in his hands. Rose had planned for that, too, even though they’d both known it would be a gamble. And Rose hated gambling—but over the years, Quinlan had learned that when she did … she always walked away with the winning hand.
Either way, one thing was for certain—the Princess of Axaria was powerful. I could have killed you, she had yelled after he burst through her window. She’d come close, the brat, but he was used to people trying to kill him.
And what was more … she still had so much potential to fulfill.
Outside of training, Quinlan had started making increasingly ludicrous excuses to seek out her company. No matter how many times he riled her or pissed her off, she simply returned the favor. Most recently, she had invited him for a walk—just the two of them—in the palace gardens. While poking fun at one another, she had lured him unawares into a corner of the enormous hedge maze on the south side of the palace and then bolted off. It had taken him two curse-filled hours to find his way out, and he later found out from Luna that she had been watching him struggle for the entire time from an overhead window, weeping with laughter.
The truth was that Asterin had been the best distraction to turn up in his life for a long while. Something to focus on, to keep him from the memories he had tried for so long to keep buried, only to discover that the deeper he dug, the closer they rose to the surface. The sting of salt tears and blood dripping down his skin. That horrible, searing heat, scorching his back, his hands. The cold hopelessness of being alone. Now he forced himself to remember so that he could remind himself of how much stronger he had grown, but the pain never faded.
