“Dead,” he says simply. “Again.”
This time when he attacks, something shifts. Maybe it’s muscle memory from all those tennis lessons, frustration, or the way he keeps looking at me like he wants to say something and can’t, but my body moves without conscious thought as I pivot on my back foot, using the momentum to spin away from his blade while bringing my dagger around in a tight arc.
Logan actually has to step back to avoid it.
We both freeze, staring at each other.
Holy shit. Did I just make Logan Ashford retreat?
“Do that again,” he says, and there’s something in his voice I’ve never heard before.Excitement.Real, genuine excitement.
Of course, trying to recreate whatever I did is like trying to catch smoke.
“I don’t know what I did,” I admit after the fifth failed attempt.
“You stopped thinking and let your body take over.” He’s studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“Great. So, I just need to turn off my brain to not suck at this.”
Maybe it’ll be easier than flipping the emotional switch? Although, I doubt it. My brain doesn’t shut up, either.
“Essentially, yes.” He raises his practice blade again. “Stop trying to be perfect. Stop thinking about the mechanics. Just move.”
We go again. And again. Sometimes I catch glimpses of whatever I tapped into—a dodge that flows like water, a parry that feels natural instead of forced. But mostly I’m still terrible.
After I fail spectacularly at a basic defensive move for what feels like the hundredth time, something in me snaps.
“This is useless.” I throw my dagger down, the blade clattering against the ground.
“Jade—”
“No!” My hands clench into fists. “You want me to not think? Fine. I’m not thinking. I’m just failing over and over again, and?—“
Silver static crackles between my clenched fingers, so faint it’s almost invisible in the torchlight.
Logan’s eyes widen, and he grabs my wrists, turning my hands palm up to stare at the crackling energy. “This is...” His voice trails off in wonder, and he looks to me for answers.
Me.For answers about magic.
Who would have thought?
“It should be impossible,” I finish. “The Void Pit blocks all magic. Doesn’t it?”
But the evidence is right here, silver threads of electricity playing between my fingers like they’re mocking centuries of magical law.
Logan’s grip tightens. “How strong were your emotions just now?”
“I was frustrated. Angry. Pissed the fuck off, if you really want to know.” I take a shaky breath. “Also, terrified. About what’s going to happen on Thursday, about everyone finding out what I am, of being sent to the Council, about failing you after you’ve spent so much time trying to help me?—“
“You could never fail me.” The words slip out quickly, and his eyes widen slightly, like he’s surprised at himself. “But if you can manifest electricity here, even faintly, the Void Pit might not fully contain it during the tournament. Which means we need to change tactics.” He drops my arms, then sits on the ground.
Logan Ashford, Mr. Perfect Proctor, is sitting in the dirt. The apocalypse must be approaching.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing for me to join him.
I sink down across from him, grateful for the break. “What tactics did you have in mind?”
“What scares you most about Thursday?”
