“Can you feel it?” His tone wasn’t the velvet thing from her dream, but it drove a shiver chasing the heat spreading over her back and along her neck.
She could feel something, all right, but admitting that the way he kept looking at her made her wish it wasn’t as intense a sensation, and that it wasn’t including the area between her thighs?—
“No idea what you’re talking about. There’s nothing. Not a flicker of power.”
Naturally, Falcrest could see right through her. “I’m pretty sure by now you can no longer tell if the sensation has anything to do with magic or if it’s just because I make you nervous.”
“You don’t make me nervous.” Her retort shot out too fast to be anything other than obvious denial.
“Tell me where you can feel it.”
She’d expected him to enjoy tormenting her with her physical responses; instead, he kept his focus, tone calm, gaze assessing, as if carefully exploring unknown territory.
“Skin.” The generalized answer was probably safest because under no circumstances would she allow Falcrest to see the effect he had on her. Bad enough, the stories he’d invented.
A curt nod was all he gave her. “Howdoes it feel?”
Thankfully, the torchlight masked the flush in Lory’s cheeks.
“Is it uncomfortable?” He shifted in his chair, where he sat across from her at the center of the room. Today, no one had locked her in, and no Almelyte gas was infiltrating the air. Whatever sensation rose in her was Falcrest’s doing and his alone.
“Is that part of your gift, bringing forth people’s powers? Is that how you got Thal’s water magic to finally show?”
“Who?” Falcrest didn’t avert his gaze, but a real question rose in his face.
“Thalric Heener.” Wiping her palms over her thighs, Lory explained how her friend Thal had returned from Falcrest’s training with his power suddenly cooperating.
“Ah, Heener. He already had his magic at the tip of his fingers; merely needed a nudge.” He ran his hand through his hair, taming the rogue strands.
“And me? What about my magic? What’s different? What are you afraid of?”
She hadn’t meant to say it, but the words were out, and Lory watched them hit with enough force to make the captain finally turn his head. A deep breath moved his chest as he rested his elbows on his knees. “Nothing … is different.”
“Something has to be, or you wouldn’t be so evasive. You wouldn’t keep threatening me, then saving me, then pretending you don’t care.”
“I don’t… care.”
“Lie.” This time, Lory fully intended to speak. She intended to push his limits, to unveil what lay beneath the Veiled Hand's mask.
Falcrest’s head snapped up, gaze locking on hers and sending the prickling sensation of fire consuming her all through her body. “It’s not a lie. I couldn’t care less about what sort of powers you have. Only what they’ll do to you if you have the wrong ones.”
“Like light magic?”
He looked so tired, like the burden of a thousand lives was resting on his young shoulders, and for a moment, Lory thought she could see the real Khayrivven Falcrest behind the facade—a man of dreams and hopes and wants. A man who had given up everything to be right here, at this brutal academy, where dreams and hopes and wants were squandered, and lives were worth nothing if they weren’t given in the king’s name.
“Do you have any idea what they do to Flame-born when they’re discovered?” The gravel in his tone was so unlike the smooth, aloof captain that an impulse in her stomach made Lory want to reach over the two-foot gap between them and place her hand on his forearm. But he wouldn’t accept the gesture. Even if she never shared whatever was spoken in this room, he’d withdraw and pull up the mask, shutting her out again, the moment he realized he’d let her in.
So, Lory held still, not allowing herself to even blink for fear she’d miss a fraction of the person hiding in that ruthless shell.
“They execute them.” A shudder raked through Falcrest’s shoulders as if he was fighting a memory, and he sat up, folding his arms over his chest and gnawing on his lower lip for a few, long seconds while his features rearranged themselves into those of the captain who guided ashlings to their death at the tip of his sword. “Right after a generous amount of torture, of course.” With every word, the smoothness returned a little more to his voice. “The way they deserve.” He cleared his throat, shifting his legs, as he studied Lory in the flickering light. “Every Flame-born has a mother or father, asibling or a cousin, uncle or aunt, or even a friend who might share their abilities, and if they rat out the others, they are promised they’ll be allowed to live.”
Lory swallowed the lump in her throat.
“They are killed anyway. After all their loved ones are rounded up and have gone through the sametrials, they are executed—but not in public as you might think. Those are the regular magic wielders. Only the Flame-born are dangerous enough to scare a king into thoughtless cruelty.”
“Careful, Khayrivven.” Lory forced a smile, the coldness ruling his expression once more nearly unbearable after the glimpse she’d got of the real him. “One might think you’re talking treason.”
Falcrest went rigid in his chair, hands grasping the armrests with white knuckles. “I’m stating facts, not opinions. Treason is for those who’d like to change facts.”
