“Thanks for the psychoanalysis, Dr. Brooding.”
“It’s not analysis if it’s obvious.”
He stepped into the light, and I tried not to notice how the fungi’s glow played across his carved marks, making them look like living things.
“She needs combat training,” he said to the Sage. “Magic is useless if she dies before she can use it.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“I’m aware.” His silver eyes fixed on me with cold assessment. “You fight like someone who’s never faced real violence. Like prey that’s never been hunted.”
“I’ve never even been hunting—”
“Irrelevant. You’re soft. Weak. The realm will eat you alive, probably literally.”
“And again, thanks for the pep talk.”
“I’m not trying to encourage you. I’m trying to keep you breathing long enough to be useful.” His voice was harsh, angry. “The marks chose wrong, but since they’re stuck on you, you’d better learn to survive wearing them.”
“Back in Arkansas, the worst danger was mosquito bites and the occasional tornado warning. Here, even the air wants to kill me.”
“Then learn to kill it back,” he said coldly. “Or die. Those are your options.”
The Sage laughed, that sound like wind through dead leaves. “This should be educational. For everyone.”
Before I could ask what that meant, Kaelren was moving. Not the supernatural speed the others had, but something worse—inevitable, like gravity deciding to take a personal interest in my destruction.
I managed half a step back before his hand was at my throat. Not choking, just present. A reminder of how easily he could end me.
“Dead,” he said quietly.
“You didn’t give me time to—”
His foot hooked behind mine, and suddenly I was on my back, looking up at him.
“Dead again,” he said. “The realm won’t give you time. Neither will I.”
“This is stupid,” I said, but I was already rolling away, some instinct screaming at me to move.
Good instinct. His hand hit the moss where my head had been, hard enough to leave an impression.
“Better,” he said. “Fear is a teacher.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m educating you. Enjoyment is irrelevant.”
He came at me again, and this time I felt the Root respond. Not consciously—I was too busy trying not to die—but the marks on my skin flared, and suddenly there were vines between us. Thin ones, nothing like the roots from before, but enough to tangle his feet.
He destroyed them with a gesture, his carved marks flaring silver-black, but it had bought me seconds. I used them to scramble backward, my hand finding a fallen branch.
“Weapons are good,” he said. “But only if you can keep them.”
He moved, the branch was gone, and his hand was at my throat again. This time, though, something else happened. Our marks touched—his carved ones against my natural ones—and the world stuttered.
For a heartbeat, I saw through his eyes. Saw myself, dirt-covered and exhausted but still defiant. Saw the marks spreading across my skin like living art. Saw the moment he’d first felt them choose me instead of him, the rage that still burned—
We broke apart, both gasping. The grove had gone silent.
