The rest of the day was a blur. Alara was still tired from the previous night’s events and the spikes of anxiety she had been coping with since yesterday. It was amazing to her how exhausting it was just to be…nervous. And going over the events again and again in her mind didn’t exactly calm her.

Thinking back to her fight with the wind mage in the dark marketplace, she couldn’t believe she had let Quenti get her caught up in that situation. In the moment, it seemed like the right thing to do, but Alara should have stopped the match herself—thrown down her spear or something. Instead, she fought, almost blasting her opponent and the onlookers with an uncontrolled burst of fire.

Alara let out a groan and slumped forward onto the surface of her desk.

“You feeling sick?” Mitteo asked softly next to her.

They were sitting near the back of the classroom, the professor droning on about the early history of Sombria and the continent of Inti. The ancient history class was supposed to help magites learn more about the early times before the Bruya Wars and how the premages lived.

It focused on the early sciences of magia and survival, which Alara usually loved learning about, but today she couldn’t stay focused, and she kept drifting into her own mind.

“I’m fine.” Alara said, giving Mitteo a weak smile before trying to focus back on the lecture. She must have been out of it for longer than she thought because a few minutes later they were being dismissed. The class was done, and Alara officially had three lines of notes to prove her attendance.

“So they haven’t kicked you out.”

Alara let out an awkward laugh as she turned toward Raquel, who had walked up behind them as they were leaving the classroom.

“No, not yet.”

“Emaru looked furious that night. I’d say I haven’t seen her that angry before, but let’s face it—it’s like her go-to mood.”

Alara’s laugh was genuine this time. “So how did the mission end up after I left?”

Mitteo, Raquel, and the other magites had stayed an extra night to complete the mission.

Raquel gave a pout, but Mitteo is the one that answered. “Nothing. Didn’t catch a single bruya after you left, but the raids have apparently stopped.”

“For now.” Raquel cut in sharply. “Seriously, Alara, when are you going to grow a backbone and start acting like a mage. Sombria could use someone with your fire strength. The Haven could.”

Alara could have responded, but she was already sick of having the same argument with Emaru. Instead she just gave an exhausted sigh.

“El’dyo, you are such a waste of talent.” Raquel turned down the next hall. “Off for magite training. See you both at supper.”

“She’s right, you know,” Mitteo said. “If you don’t start controlling and strengthening your powers soon, getting kicked out is inevitable. Then where would you go?”

“I’ll be fine,” Alara said, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach. “Maybe you should practice some more, yourself. I’m not the only one who was a mess out there. Talk to Senya Cruz about controlling those stomping feet of yours. It’s a wonder the bruyas weren’t scared off for miles that night.” Alara turned and marched down the hallway before Mitteo had a chance to argue with her. She knew it was a cruel thing to say, but she despised the look of pity that had been in his eyes.

Alara knew she should have headed down to the practice rooms to work on her fire skills—as she was scheduled to do—but instead, she found herself wandering toward Adelmo’s home. She felt a nervous energy buzzing underneath her skin and needed to get out some aggression.

The old man wasn’t home when she got there, but she let herself in, knowing he was probably with the livestock somewhere and wouldn’t mind. She didn’t even bother changing into her fighting outfit, and just slipped out of her sandals. Propping up the straw dummy, Alara started sparring. Her hits were sharp and fast. She felt her anxiety melt away and all thoughts of the past and future fell silent. In that moment, all she could focus on was where the next blow would hit and where to place her feet to best keep her balance.

At some point she became aware that she was being watched. Aiming one last kicked at the dummy, she spun, expecting to see Adelmo. Instead, Ardo leaned in the doorway, a sideways smile playing across his tanned face.

“Shouldn’t you be out training somewhere?” Alara asked, turning back to the dummy.

“I already make the other councilguards quake in fear of my talents. I have to give them a chance to catch up.” Ardo stepped into the room, his eyes watching as Alara continued to move around the dummy, punches landing across the torso with soft thuds and sharp hisses of Alara’s breath.

“With an ego like that,” Alara said in between punches, “you’re just asking for El’dyo’s ire.”

“El’dyo and I have come to an understanding.”

Alara rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling. “Don’t let Wila hear you talking like that. She’ll have you burned as a heretic.”

“The old crone can try.”

Alara ignored the comment, not altogether disagreeing with the sentiment. She didn’t quite despise Wila the way she did Senya Cruz, but the stone-faced woman’s constant quoting of scripture set Alara on edge.

“Make yourself useful,” Alara said.

Ardo understood immediately, grabbing two narrow clubs propped against the wall, tossing one to her. She caught it without question and lowered her stance, readying herself for the fight.

He made the first move, the wood sweeping low toward her knees. He moved fast, but Alara saw the shift of his legs before he swung the club, making the motion easy to block. She responded, swinging her own club toward his head. He blocked it, taking a step back as he did. They sparred in silence for a few minutes, and Alara’s arm started to ache.

“You’re fighting high again,” Ardo said blocking another swing at his face. Taking advantage of her open body, he sent a to jab into her ribs with his free hand. “You’re not playing to your strengths.”

“What are my strengths?”

“You’re small—people won’t expect you to be able to beat them.”

“I don’t think that’s a compliment,” Alara said.

“You need to use your opponent’s height and strength against them.”

“Why do you assume they’ll be taller and stronger than me?”

Ardo swiped her feet out from under her, leaning over her with a smile. “Everyone is taller than you. And you should always assume your enemy is stronger than, so you’re never caught unaware.”

Alara growled at this before swinging again as she jumped up.

As the two sparred, Alara felt her frustrations start to grow once again, along with a fire inside a chest—the same fire that almost got her in trouble the night before in the fight. Rather than let it consume her again, she shoved it back down. Senya Emaru would’ve been disappointed, but this was a physical fight she was in, not some bruya brawl.

Ardo caught her swing again toward his face and hooked his leg behind her knee. She stumbled forward, angry at not seeing the move coming. Yet he always seemed to know what she was about to do. Perhaps she was becoming too predictable.

“How’s the new girl?” Ardo asked, letting Alara regain her footing.

“I could not care less,” she snapped.

He chuckled. “Always the friendly one.”

“I’m friendly. She’s just … impossible.” Alara stopped fighting, her arms going wide with exasperation.

“I believe that is the exact term Senya Emaru uses for you.” Ardo moved over to Adelmo’s table, wiping the sweat from his brow as he sat. Alara followed suit, recognizing that she and Ardo were more at home in Adelmo’s house than anywhere in the Haven. A councilguard hanging around with a magite wasn’t exactly outlawed, but it wouldn’t exactly gain a resounding seal of approval. Particularly from Emaru.

“Senya Emaru is also impossible,” Alara said peevishly.

Ardo’s laugh was warm and deep and Alara ignored the feeling it sent through her chest.

“Should I bother asking if you’re supposed to be in class right now?” A voice rang out from behind her.

Alara turned to the doorway as Adelmo slipped into the room, his own face slick with sweat, cheeks red from the sun.

“Alara?”

“Independent practice time,” Alara said. She motioned briefly toward the fighting equipment, eyes wide with what she knew looked like fake innocence.

“And I’m sure this is exactly what you’re supposed to be practicing right now.”

Alara flashed him a large smile. “I’m awfully sure my schedule didn’t specify.”

He shook his head and gave her his patented I’m disappointed in you, but am going to guilt you with my silence on the topic look.

“Well, how’s she doing then?” Adelmo asked Ardo as he lowered himself carefully into one of the chairs.

“She’s still fighting too high. She’s almost becoming predictable.” Ardo spoke to Adelmo, but his eyes focused on her. “I guess predictable is what happens when a soldier refuses to use half their tools.”

Ardo’s lips twitched as Alara opened her mouth to argue. He was expecting a fight. El’dyo, perhaps she was predictable. She quickly closed her mouth, grinding her teeth together in frustration.

Ardo stood, grinning wide, completely unaffected by Alara’s glare, much to her frustration. “I should go. No rest for the wicked.” He nodded to Alara and Adelmo before he slipped out of the doorway and disappeared down the street.

“He’s a nice young man, isn’t he?” Adelmo said.

Alara shrugged, slightly perplexed by Adelmo’s comment. She watched as his gaze shifted to the fighting equipment they had left lying on the ground. He was quiet—lost in thought.

Alara stood and began picking up the clubs, hanging them back on the wall where they belonged. She pushed the dummy back into the corner of the room before turning back to Adelmo. He was still silent, gaze following her movement, but mind elsewhere.

“Adelmo?”

His eyes sharpened back to focus and he acknowledged her with a small humph.

“What were you doing in the dark marketplace last night?”

To her surprise, Adelmo chuckled softly as the sudden inquiry. He didn’t look guilty. “Just because I can’t fight anymore, doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy watching a good spar. The fights in the dark marketplace are some of the best to watch. Unregulated, the fighters do a better job at blending their physical skills with their magia skills. And every once and awhile, you even get a blameless fighter in there, holding his own against a mage.” He shrugged. “Even you almost held your own. Just imagine if you had full control.”

Alara groaned, her forehead banging softly against the table as she slumped forward in her chair. “Not you too, Adelmo!”

“You were blessed with these gifts, but you keep insisting on fighting them.”

“Blessed…right. They call those without magia blameless for a reason.”