37
When the Witch Stepped In
Melody
After the rift, things have gone back to almost normal. There are soldiers patrolling the campus now, but apart from that, the wild magic has ebbed away again, and it’s a beautiful sunny day as I follow Shay and Cassius out of the building to our daily magical combat session with Kyrith.
Ryder comes running along in the form of a huge anthracite wolf, brushing up against Cassius’s legs, who laughs and scratches him behind his fluffy ears.
My mouth goes dry when my gaze falls on the combat ring in the middle of the training grounds—and on the weapons Kyrith has so carefully lined up there. Daggers. Swords. Spears, for fuck’s sake.
All around us, students are already sparring in pairs, magic crackling like wildfire through the air—shields flaring in bright colors, projectiles of flame and light shooting across the field, bursts of wind and glittering barriers rising and collapsing in rapid succession.
The usual noise of a combat class—grunts, shouted incantations, and the crackle of magic on magic—fills the air.
But my focus is fixed on the ring that holds Kyrith and his aura.
Today is going to be brutal, even more so than usual.
I can feel it, see it wavering all around him—the ugly violet-red tinge of violence.
I try to control my breathing, uneven as it’s suddenly become, and quickly fortify my mental shields, making sure I’m totally cut off from Aris.
Otherwise, I know there’ll be a dragon coming to bite off Kyrith’s head.
But my muscles tense and lock, already braced for pain, for humiliation. For blood.
The force in my veins thrashes against its cage, trying to rip free of the confines of my skin, sensing the danger. I shudder, holding it back with every scrap of willpower I have.
And then my eyes land on the morning star.
For a heartbeat, I can’t breathe. A spiked ball on a chain, the twin of Aris’s tail—only meant to kill. Panic surges up my throat, white-hot and overwhelming, sending my ears ringing.
“You look pale,” Kyrith says by way of greeting, his forest-green eyes glinting like cold glass. He picks up the monstrous weapon, running his fingers over the spikes like a lover.
This is no longer just another training match. This feels like an execution.
Students start noticing, the sounds of their sparring fading as, one by one, they pause and turn to watch. Shields drop, spells fizzle out. They circle closer, some climbing onto the wooden balconies around the yard, whispering as if the air itself has gone sharp.
For the first time, I wonder if Caryan sanctioned this. If he really knows what Kyrith calls training.
Maybe he’s given up on me.
Maybe he no longer cares.
Please, no.
Kyrith’s leer widens as he takes a step toward me, the weapon gleaming in his hand. “Magic, Melody,” he says, his voice like a knife sliding across glass. “Fight me with that magic.”
The gathered students press in closer, the field now eerily quiet, all eyes on us.
I draw the black sword from the scabbard at my back, my fingers tight around the hilt.
“No sword. Magic—” Kyrith snarls and lunges.
I move—faster than I’ve ever moved—but he’s right there, the chain whistling through the air.
I bring my sword up just in time. The impact nearly wrenches my arms from their sockets, the jolt rattling through my bones.
He’s going to kill me.
Like that night in Caryan’s throne room when I buried the dagger in Kyrith’s shoulder, I know he’ll go too far.
I barely recover before the next strike. I grab a shield from the rack, bringing it up just as the morning star slams into it, denting the metal and bruising my ribs. I hit the ground hard, landing on my knees.
“Magic!” Kyrith barks, sweat running down his temple, his grip white-knuckled on the weapon.
I shake my head, my eyes burning. The darkness inside me writhes and claws for release. I force it down. I might hate Kyrith, but I don’t want to kill him.
The chain rattles as he swings again. The spiked ball hurtles toward my face—
“This ends now.”
The voice is so deep, so cold, so full of leashed rage that it stops Kyrith mid-swing. And then I see her.
Blair.
The crowd parts for her. The crackle of magic dies completely, leaving only the wind and the ringing in my ears.
She looks terrifying and regal—but whatever she is, she has never looked more deadly, more otherworldly than now: her long hair braided into a crown that glints in the sunlight like a real coronet.
Her red coat swirls around her like smoke, her claws curved, her back straight and proud, her hands flexed—sharp, ready.
A warrior queen. And a terrifying, beautiful monster.
Her amber eyes blaze as they pin Kyrith, silver fangs bared. “I’m putting a stop to this. Right now,” she says, her voice like a death knell. “You want a fight? Take it up with someone your equal.”
“And that’s you, witch?” Kyrith sneers. “We’ve seen how well that went last time.”
“Then it’s time to level the field and kick your fucking ass. I should’ve done it a long time ago. Get out,” she says to me, voice sharp as a blade. She doesn’t even glance my way.
Then she leaps into the ring, shedding her cloak in one motion. It falls like spilled blood, revealing her body in black, skin-tight leathers that cling to every muscle, every line of her honed yet lush form. I hear several students gasp because she looks hot as hells.
Her left hand snatches a chain from the rack, spinning it once with lethal grace. Then, with a kick of her boot, she sends a longsword flying into the air—catching it without looking, the blade singing as her other hand closes around the hilt.
And then she attacks.
Kyrith roars his battle cry and charges to meet her. They collide in the center of the ring—silver and black flashing, sparks raining with every strike.
Kyrith teleports, and in the blink of an eye, there’s a sword in his free hand. Suddenly, there are four weapons clashing, a storm of steel and chain, metal ringing and hissing, sparks flying high enough to catch in the students’ hair.
I scramble back, heart pounding, watching as the entire combat class becomes an audience to the deadliest fight I’ve ever seen.