8. 7 #2
His hand pressed against her back, firm, guiding her shoulders into place.
She turned her head away sharply. “You could be a little nicer.”
But his fingers found her chin again before she could react, tilting her face forward, inches from his. “Stop moving,” he snapped.
Her skin buzzed where he touched her, and she hated that she noticed. Hated more that he noticed her noticing. She stared straight ahead, jaw tight, trying to ignore the heat blooming across her cheeks. Her heart was still racing from the spell, but now it thudded for an entirely different reason.
Arrogant. That was the word. He was arrogant and smug and insufferable. She clenched her fists, resisting the urge to swat his hand away. Stop moving, he’d said, like she was some unruly child. Like he had any right to touch her, to correct her, to look at her like that.
But she didn’t move.
She stood there, spine straightened by his hand, chin held in place by his fingers, and found herself … oddly thrilled by it. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to hurt him or ask him another question.
Maybe both.
“There,” Lance said, stepping back, his hands falling to his sides.
“You couldn’t have started with this?” Mabel criticized him.
“I needed to know if this was worth the effort,” he replied with a shrug, eyes scanning her stance.
Her gaze dropped, brows knitting as uncertainty crept in. Then, slowly, she looked up again. “Is it?” she asked, voice timid.
He met her eyes, and for a moment, something flickered—annoyance, maybe, or something quieter. He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t still be standing here.”
Mabel nodded, the words settling in her chest like a weight and a spark all at once. Her nerves surged again, but she held her ground.
He didn’t speak; his magic simply listened.
She watched as his sigils flared, etched like fire against his skin.
He stepped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.
“Go on,” he said, voice dropping as he leaned to her height.
“Use an attack spell.” His eyes locked onto hers, daring her.
She felt the blush rise before she could stop it, her pulse thudding in her ears. She nodded, swallowing hard, and closed her eyes to summon the light.
It came easier this time, though still pulsing with the rhythm of her nerves. The orb bloomed in her palms, trembling slightly.
Lance stepped back, giving her space.
She threw it. It hit him square in the chest, but the moment it touched his protection sigils, it vanished, dissolving into the air like mist.
“Again,” he said, voice sharp and unwavering.
She summoned the light again and again. Each time, she hurled it with more force, more desperation, but every orb shattered the moment it touched him, dissolving against his shield.
Her breath came faster, teeth gritting as she conjured another. “What’s the point?” she snapped. “They break every time. It’s useless.”
Lance shook his head, that maddening smile tugging at his lips. “Patience, Miss Ravenov,” he said, voice laced with mockery. “You’ll get it eventually.”
“Get what?” she groaned, summoning another orb and flinging it at him. This time, it cracked—just slightly—against his protection spell.
She froze, eyes wide.
Lance’s smirk deepened. “Again.”
Mabel narrowed her eyes, planting her feet and drawing the light into her palms. It came faster now, sharper. She could feel it. How it responded to her anger, how it pulsed with the heat rising in her chest.
She threw it hard.
It struck him squarely, and this time, he staggered back a step.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Lance barked out a laugh, his voice echoing off the stone.
Mabel’s nostrils flared. “Would you stop acting like such a prick?” she snapped, hurling another orb at him.
It struck harder this time, and she didn’t wait. She conjured again and again, each spell sharper, brighter, more volatile. Her anger surged, guiding the light as she flung it with relentless force until one hit sent him sprawling backward.
He hit the ground with a grunt, the impact echoing through the chamber. Mabel didn’t pause. Light surged in her palms as she summoned another orb, her steps hard, unflinching. The glow framed her like a halo of fury.
She stopped over him, breath heavy from the strain. Her eyes burned down into his, daring him to mock her again.
“Well?” she demanded, eyes sharp. “Anything clever left to say?”
“You did well.” Lance looked up at her, lips tugging into a slow, infuriating smirk. “Good girl.”
Her magic faltered, flickering in her hands. Not from weakness, but from the sudden, jarring shift in tone. Praise wrapped not in condescension but something else entirely.
He rose slowly, brushing dust from his sleeves, his gaze never leaving hers. His steps carried him toward her with maddening ease.
“Feel that?” he hummed, voice smooth. “Your anger fueled it. Magic doesn’t obey thought—it obeys feelings. If you hesitate, it does too.” His gaze dropped to her fading orb, lip curling up as it flickered. “It listens.”
Mabel stepped back instinctively. Her pulse thundered in her ears, the remnants of light still trembling in her palms.
“It’s a careful balance,” Lance said, voice quieter now. “Let emotion take over, and magic slips out of your control.”
He reached for her wrist, gentler this time, but the contact still seared. His spell pulsed beneath her skin, disarming the orb in her hand with a sharp, burning jolt. She yanked her arm back with a yelp.
“Protection spells aren’t as fragile,” he said, gaze steady. “Which means there’s no excuse for yours being so weak.”
“I only found out I had magic days ago,” she snapped, the words spilling out before she could temper them.
He crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Another excuse. How did you not know?”
Mabel looked down, then stepped past him, her voice dropping. “I wasn’t allowed to try,” she said, shoulders tight. “Women are forbidden to practice magic in Moorthwyn. I can only imagine what my father would say. What he’d do if he saw me right now.”
Lance watched her carefully. Her hands were clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms, trembling just slightly. He stepped closer, slower this time, his tone shifting.
“You’re afraid of him,” he said. Not mocking, not cruel. Just observant.
Mabel’s head snapped up, a tight smile tugging at her lips.
“I’m afraid of a lot of things,” she said lightly, though her tone was edged.
“Spiders. Dogs. Men who think they can read me.” She stepped back, putting more space between them, her gaze fixed on the far wall instead of his face.
“But my father?” She gave a small, dismissive shrug. “He’s just … It’s complicated.”
Lance’s eyes narrowed, studying her as though he could see the truth she was trying to bury.
“Complicated,” he echoed, the word tasting like disbelief.
Mabel tilted her chin, meeting his gaze with practiced steadiness. “You can call it whatever you like. I call it none of your business.”
He didn’t move, only kept his gaze fixed on her. He couldn’t understand his growing desire to know more about her. He didn’t think he had it in him to even care. But he still found himself agreeing to train her. And the worst part—he was enjoying it.
“Are you going to teach me something else, or just keep interrogating me?” Mabel glared at him.
That damned smirk returned. He stepped in, closing the space between them until she could feel the heat of his presence. “You’re eager.” His gaze fell over her with measured interest. “I like it.”
Without another word, he shifted the lesson. They moved into protection spells: when to use them; which were strongest under pressure; and how to keep them steady in the chaos of combat. His voice was measured, but his eyes tracked every flicker of her concentration, every slip in her stance.
Lance pressed her hard, each strike faster, sharper, more precise.
At first, she faltered, tripping over her own feet, desperate to match his pace.
Until she felt the rhythm in her own movements, the steps she’d been repeating in her head.
It was a dance. She may not have been the best fighter, but she was a good dancer.
Years of lashes across her arms and legs with each misstep had made sure of that.
He’d expected her to falter.
Instead, she adapted. Too quickly. Too fluidly.
Mabel drew in a breath, slow and steady, willing her nerves into silence.
Light swirled to life at her fingertips, curling over her skin like a flame seeking oxygen.
It gathered in her palms—bright, pulsing, alive.
When she looked up, Lance stood with his arms open, feet light, posture loose. An invitation.
She didn’t hesitate.
The orb flew from her hands, striking his chest with enough force to make him stagger. He recovered quickly, spinning on his heel, magic flaring in his palms.
And then they moved.
His spell tore toward her, but Mabel turned with it, not against it, her shield blooming in a shimmer of light just before impact. The force rippled through her arms, but she didn’t falter. She pivoted, graceful, and let her own arc of light spiral outward in reply.
Lance dodged almost breath too slow. His counterstrike came before her heels had even kissed the ground. She caught it midair, letting the magic roll across her palms like, then flicked it back with precision.
“Better,” he called, stepping aside as the orb skimmed past.
But Mabel’s smile curved. She knew she was doing well and she loved it. Her arms lifted, and the magic obeyed, looping back in a sudden sweep to strike him from behind.
As if the duel were a waltz only she could hear, she stepped to the rhythm of imagined strings, summoning light in both palms. The first orb drifted from her fingers, releasing in time with her breath.
Lance blocked the first with ease.
The second forced him into a twist, cloak flaring behind him.
And still, she danced.
His eyes lit, no longer amused, but engaged.