Chapter 25
Maeve
“YOUR ESSAY TOPIC IS DUE to me next class,” Severin says moments before the clock chimes, marking the end of the class period.
All around me, the other fourth-years scurry to put their notebooks and quills away, but I move more slowly.
I know better than to make my feelings for Severin obvious in class, but I still like to take my time so that I can at least catch his eye on my way out of the classroom.
When most of the other students are gone, having already filed out into the history wing, I stand from my seat and sling my bookbag over one shoulder, being careful not to squish Isis where she’s curled around my throat.
Severin is talking to another student as I step down from the raised seating, and I think he won’t notice me leaving, but before I can make it to the door, he calls out, “Miss Vandermere, a moment.”
I go still, a tiny thrill dancing through my veins. In response, Isis lets out a gentle hiss.
“If you need more guidance,” Severin is telling the other student, “come to my office hours.”
“Yes, Professor. Thank you.” The witch walks away, passing me on her way to the door.
When we’re alone, Severin meets my eye.
“Professor,” I say, a hint of curiosity painting my tone.
I expect him to smile in that small, secret way he’s started to. But instead, he looks at me seriously, and I wonder what this is about.
“The Arcanum Collective fellowship came up during our staff meeting this morning,” he says.
And that completely changes the vibe. I step toward him. “What about it?”
Severin stands a bit straighter, and the golden sunlight coming through the classroom windows makes his black eyes look like flecks of gold are floating in them. “Headmistress Moonhart has asked that I . . . assist you.”
Immediately, I bristle, annoyed at knowing the professors were discussing me—and my shortcomings, apparently. “Assist me with what?”
Severin doesn’t have magic; how is he supposed to help me with mine?
“Guidance,” he says simply.
I grip the strap of my bookbag and narrow my eyes. “I don’t understand.”
Severin stares back at me, seeming for a moment to consider his next words. Then he says, “Professor Azula believes you are close to being ready, but your next demonstration is critical. With my experience in control, the headmistress believes I may be of some help to you.”
Control.
I’ve grown so tired of that word. If I never hear it again, it’ll still be too soon.
“Does Moonhart not think I’m controlled?”
“She said nothing of the sort,” Severin says. “Only that she believes my experience could be helpful to you.”
We hold each other’s gazes, mine probably suspicious, his guarded, unreadable.
“Do not be defensive,” Isis whispers to me. “If Headmistress Moonhart believes he can help you, he likely can.”
Her words break the spell on me, and I slowly release my tight grip on my bookbag and let out a long sigh, shoulders relaxing.
Isis is right. Headmistress Moonhart sees more than she lets on—a scary amount, actually—and she’s got a special knack for knowing what her students need, even when they don’t.
Like Lyra when we were second-years. That community service turned out to be the best thing for her.
“All right,” I say, trying to keep the lingering annoyance from my tone. “When and where?”
A small smile flickers across Severin’s lips, warming my chest, before quickly disappearing. “This evening. The spire.” He starts to turn away, then pauses to add, “Wear something comfortable.”
ALL DAY, I WAS CURIOUS about what Severin has planned for me and why I need to wear comfortable clothes.
Even now, as I climb the winding stairs to the Skyreach Spire, wearing a soft black tunic and flowy black pants, I wonder what we’re going to do—and how he thinks it’ll help with my storm magic and energy sphere.
When I get to the top of the staircase, I detect a hint of Severin’s cologne still hanging in the air, and without meaning for it to, my heart beats just a bit faster.
I push open the door and step out onto the spire.
Night is falling earlier and earlier as we move deeper into autumn, but the torches on either side of the door are alight, and they toss warm firelight across Severin’s form as he moves across the spire, blade in hand, metal gleaming as he moves it with practiced grace.
He wields the sword like it’s an extension of his arm, each breath and shift of his weight appearing precise and intentional.
It’s impossible not to find him—and his art—beautiful.
The door whispers closed behind me, and Severin finishes his last movement, a smooth forward thrust with the polished sword, before lowering the blade and turning to meet my eyes.
For a long moment, we just look at each other, the crackling torches at my back tossing light across Severin’s pale face.
His gaze assesses me quickly. “Good,” he says. “You dressed appropriately.”
My lips tug up a bit on one side. “It would’ve helped if you told me what we’re going to be doing.”
His focused mask slips a bit, just enough to let one of those tiny smiles through. “That would’ve ruined the fun.”
A tiny laugh escapes me. “Professor Severin D’Arques likes fun?”
He arches a brow at me. “I have layers, Miss Vandermere.”
Not layered clothes, surely. Because right now, all he’s wearing is a pair of tight trousers and a tunic with a low V in the front, which reveals glimpses of his strong chest. My eyes are drawn to his skin, and I can’t help but to recall my hands on his chest as I rode him the night of Samhain, then how it felt to be cuddled up against him afterward, safer than anywhere else in the world.
He crosses the spire, and from a low stone bench, he picks something up: a sheathed blade.
“This is for you.”
He holds it out to me. I don’t move.
“A . . . blade?” I ask, arching a brow slowly.
“Yes.”
“I’m a storm witch. How is this going to help with my fellowship preparation?”
“Are you always so confrontational?” he asks. But before I can reply, he steps forward and offers the blade again. “Take the sword, Maeve.”
The way he says my name, like he’s annoyed with me and wants to kiss me at the same time, finally softens me, and I accept the sheathed blade.
It’s heavier than I expected, and I realize that I’ve never held a sword before. Lyra pestered Raelan into giving her a swordsmanship lesson once, but Poppy, Alina, and I just watched, teasing Lyra as she struggled with the heavy weapon.
Now I realize I shouldn’t have laughed.
I pull the blade free of the sheath and admire the way it glints in the torchlight, so polished I can see my reflection in it.
Severin takes the sheath and returns it to the stone bench, then circles me slowly.
“Your magic overwhelms you because you meet it with force,” he says. “You grasp it, try to confine it.”
I flick a glance at him as he comes to stand in front of me. “I have to confine it. Otherwise, it’s dangerous.”
A tiny smile crosses his lips. “Do you remember what you told me that first day in class?”
The first day in class, when I argued with him about the Tempest Cataclysm and the devastation that occurred.
“I said many things. Which are you referring to?”
With that smile still on his face, he says, “ ‘Storms need guidance, not dominance.’ But you’ve been trying to dominate yours, haven’t you?”
My fingers tighten around the hilt of the sword, but I say nothing.
“Your attempts at control have been ineffective, so we’re going to try something else.” He glances down at my feet. “Shoes off.”
Partially annoyed and partially curious, I kick my soft-soled boots to the side of the tower, where they thump against the stone.
“Feet apart.”
I adjust my footing.
“Wider.”
With a sigh, I widen my stance.
“You’re too stiff.” He walks around behind me, and one of his hands finds my shoulder. Immediately, his touch comforts me, and the tension eases from my muscles. “Better.” His breath tickles my ear, and a tingle goes down my back. “But you continue bracing yourself.”
“I’m preparing myself,” I counter.
“You’re already expecting resistance. But a sword doesn’t battle the air; it moves through it.” He steps closer, his heat warming my back through my thin tunic. “Lift your blade.”
I do.
“Not like that.” A low rumble of a laugh escapes him. He reaches out to touch my wrist. “If you grip the hilt too tightly, your arm locks. Your muscles should always be soft.”
I focus on my fingers, slowly easing my grip on the hilt. “Better?”
“Better.” He steps in front of me. “Now breathe.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I am breathing.”
One of his brows arches. “Maeve.”
“Okay, okay.” I take a heavy breath, then exhale.
“Inhale through your nose. Slowly. The breath should expand here.” He reaches out, very gently touching the area just below my ribs. “Not here.” His fingers drift to my sternum, making my heart pound. “Try again.”
I do. He makes me breathe like that for so long that I wonder if this is going to be the entire lesson. But by the time I get the hang of it, I’m surprised to find that my racing heart has calmed, and my muscles feel looser, lighter.
“Your magic surges because you surge,” he says. “Everything comes from within.”
I continue to breathe.
“Now, raise the sword.”
Still breathing, and being mindful not to grip the hilt too hard, I lift the sword.
“Not from your shoulders—from your center. Try again.”
Trying not to be annoyed, I lower the sword, then lift it again, this time engaging my stomach muscles as I do. There’s a subtle difference, but a difference nonetheless.
“Now step forward with your right foot.”
Following his instructions, I step forward, but the weight of the sword pulls me off-balance, and I stumble.
“Try again. Be mindful of the weight you’re carrying.”
He has me practice stepping forward and back, and when I no longer wobble, he guides me through pivoting, shifting my weight from one leg to the other.
It sounds simple, but my body is already starting to ache, and I haven’t even swung the sword yet—all I’ve done is lift and lower it and hold it aloft.
“Close your eyes,” he says softly. “You should feel where your body is without needing sight to ground you.”
I take a breath—the way he taught me—then let it out slowly and close my eyes. Immediately, stepping and shifting my weight becomes much more difficult, and I stumble a few times before getting the hang of it.
“Well done.”
At his praise, I open my eyes, and somehow, my vision feels sharper.
Severin steps in front of me, holding his own sword. “Now,” he says, “we begin.”
Now we begin? An hour must’ve already passed, and my muscles are aching. But I bite back my complaint and give him a subtle nod.
I want him to know that I can do this. I want to prove to myself that I can do this.
“Do not strike,” he says. “Follow. Mirror my movements. Remember your balance, and don’t grip.”
He readies his stance, and I copy him. Then he lifts his sword and moves, sweeping it slowly and deliberately to one side.
I follow the movement, arm muscles trembling, and am once again surprised at how difficult this is.
He makes it look so easy, like anyone could pick up a sword and start swinging it around.
I realize now how much work he must’ve put into his art.
Bringing the sword up, he sweeps it the other way. I follow. Then he lifts it toward me, and when I lift mine, our swords make contact, and the vibration rumbles up the blade and into my fingers.
“Find the resistance,” he says, still pushing his sword against mine, forcing me to meet him with equal pressure. “Don’t push into it. Redirect it. Let the energy flow.”
Gritting my teeth against his balanced strength, I shift my wrist just a bit, and it’s enough to send Severin’s blade gliding along my own, until it slides away and meets the air again.
He smiles at me. “Good. Now, again.”
We continue in this way, with me mirroring him, until I no longer brace for impact when his blade meets mine. And when I send his sword gliding harmlessly off mine, using my breath to help guide me through the movement, he nods and lowers his weapon.
“Well done. That’s enough for your first lesson.”
Relieved, I lower the sword, and my shoulder muscles could weep with relief.
But then he says, “Now, show me what you’ve been working on.”