Chapter Three
What Devils Dream Of
"A devil's fears live in the spaces between sentences. Their wants in how they look away."
Day three. Things I had learned.
Mira's cheerfulness was not a performance. It coexisted with combat efficiency that had put me face-down on stone six times in one afternoon. When she offered a hand the sixth time:
"You're getting better! That last one almost connected."
Elias communicated primarily in footnotes silent for hours, then, at exactly the worst moment:
"Your left guard collapses when you extend. This has happened seven times. It will be the thing that kills you."
Then back to his book. Always correct.
Lyra Ashveil had not spoken a single word to me in three days. Trained alone. The clipped silver stubs where her wings should have been were visible when she removed her jacket and she had noted me noticing, once. Her expression communicated clearly: say nothing.
I said nothing. Progress.
Fourth thing the one I was spending the most mental energy not thinking about:
Seraphina Valcrest, when she trained, was genuinely extraordinary to watch.
Day three morning. She came to wake me herself.
Knocked. Entered when I didn't answer quickly enough.
White shirt. Dark trousers. Hair down loose, extraordinary, falling to her waist. The kind of careless beauty that requires remarkable effort to be unconcerned about.
Not the uniform. Just her.
"Training in twenty minutes. You look terrible."
"Thank you," I said. "You look"
I stopped. Recalibrated.
"Twenty minutes," I said.
Something moved through her eyes. Might have been amusement. "Good answer."
She left.
I lay there for thirty seconds processing the encounter. Then got up, because I was not going to be the person who was late to Seraphina Valcrest's training session.
Not out of fear. Not exactly.
That afternoon, Elias set down his book.
The room went quiet.
"The bond," he said, not looking at either of us, "will strengthen. You should deal with it rather than conducting an elaborate performance of pretending it isn't there."
Mira became extremely interested in her hand wrappings.
Lyra, from her corner, held strong opinions she wasn't sharing.
Seraphina set down her pen with surgical precision. "Elias."
"You've stood four feet closer to him than to anyone else in every interaction today. You've corrected his form six times in two hours. You've corrected mine twice in three years."
"Elias."
"I'm being analytical." He picked up his book. "It's what you keep me for."
Silence.
I looked at Seraphina. She was looking at her pen. Then she looked up at me — and for one moment the composure was gone.
Just her. Unguarded. Complicated. Real.
The acknowledgment of a thing she hadn't chosen and didn't know how to file.
One second.
Then it was back. Flawless.
"Dinner at seven," she said, and left the room.
Mira exhaled like a pressure valve. "She definitely likes you."
"She used a King Piece on me."
"Exactly!"
Elias said nothing. Which meant he agreed.
I looked at the door she'd left through. The bond did a slow, complicated revolution.
Like something settling into place.
End of Chapter Three