“I can beat myself,” I shrug, then add under my breath: “Of all the enemies, I will be the easiest, and it ends as soon as one of us points our weapons at a vital point, like the throat or heart. Easy.”
“Are you serious?” he crosses his arms, the silver eyes challenging. “Make a sword.”
“What?” I stare at him in pure shock.
“What were you thinking? You need to summon it. You keep avoiding it each time I train you. I won’t tolerate excuses today.”
The nice Riven is gone. Now I’m face to face with the Great General of Dragthralls.
Anger flares. I clench my fists and focus on my power, trying to visualise a sword like Riven taught me, but nothing happens.
“Try harder. Think about specific details: the shape, the sharpness,the length, the handle.” He squats beside me, pinching my chin. “You need practice, Miss Architect. If you can’t do it here, you’ll never manage under pressure.”
“Who won the Curse Dice?” I totally ask him only to get some break.
“Me, of course,” he fixes me with a hard stare, folding his arms. “Create a sword.”
I sigh in exasperation. “You will have your sword,” I say dryly and dip into the well of my power; the access is easier than ever without the wicked storm on the edge.
Yet stirring the well adds to the ache.
The itch lingers, and neither breathing nor bracing myself helps.
Think about Grams. She wielded her power without any trouble. She acted as if the things she architected had already been in the world and she only revealed them for the rest of us.
I reach out and open my fist, as I would if I were holding a handle, then tap into the power. It is easy. I draw it and it stays still, obedient and compliant.
I feel the substance taking shape in my hand, but there’s no time to feel smug, because my hand is on fire. I drop the damn sword and glance down. My skin’s already red, and a blister is beginning to form.
“You need to take the quality of the sword under consideration, as well as the shape,” Riven says, with a smile tugging on his lips.
He reaches for my injured hand, “You did well.”
“I used iron,” I sigh.
I am a disaster. At least the burn distracts me from the itch.
“Yes.” He stares at my hand, and his moon-kissed depths shift; the irises change vertically. The pain fades, and I blink at the red mark left behind.
“You’re a healer!” I gape at him in shock.
“A weak one,” he says with a faint smile, releasing my hand.
I meet his gaze. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since our dance. Then, he was a mystery. Now, he’s a General with an agenda.
“Let’s try again,” he says, turning his focus back to my wielding.
I obey, channelling my power, and this time, I succeed. But with each idea I bring into existence, the hunger sharpens, growing more intense.
I turn away from Riven to prevent him from reading the agitation on my face. “I need to see Karo; we will come back to it.”
“What are you hiding?” Riven asks, and I feel him behind my back. I force myself to stay relaxed and give nothing away.
“What’s it to you?” I reply, flattening my tone and letting my voice echo in the terrifying emptiness of the mountain.
He grabs my arms, and I don’t want him to let go. His touch soothes my skin.
“I understand you’re hurt by my dishonesty,” he says softly, “but there’s no need for the kind of animosity you’re directing at us… at me.”
