Rurik vanishes before she can incinerate him.
“I hate him.”
“Most people do, at first.” I keep my voice calm, soothing. “He grows on you.”
“Like a fungus?”
“Like a particularly persistent rash.” The words slip out before I can stop them—dry, unexpected. Something I might have said four hundred years ago, when humor came easier.
Nasyra blinks. For a moment, the anger drains from her expression, replaced by something that might be surprise.
“Did you just make a joke?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“I didn’t think you knew how.”
“I contain multitudes.” I gesture toward the center of the yard. “Again. Try to hold the construct longer this time, even if Rurik comes back to offer more ‘helpful observations.’”
She moves into position, but some of the rigid hostility has left her posture. The surprise at my unexpected humor has cracked something in her defenses—a small thing, barely noticeable, but there.
We resume.
Rurik returns an hour later.
This time, he brings food—a tray of bread, cheese, and fruit that he sets on the fence with exaggerated care.
“Peace offering,” he announces. “Also, Aisling said you’d both forget to eat if someone didn’t remind you. She’s not wrong.Zyphon once went three days without food because he was too focused on tracking a shadow-creature.”
“That was one time.”
“That we know of.” Rurik settles onto the fence, making himself comfortable. “Don’t mind me. I’m just here to observe. Quietly. Like a very supportive piece of furniture.”
“You’ve never been quiet in your life.”
“Not true. Aisling made me sit with my mouth closed for five minutes once. It was horrible.”
Nasyra’s construct wavers but holds. She’s getting better at filtering out distractions—or at least, getting better at channeling her irritation into focus rather than fire.
“You know,” Rurik says after a few minutes of what, for him, constitutes silence, “this is actually kind of beautiful. In a terrifying way. The way your powers dance around each other.”
“We’re not dancing,” Nasyra grits out.
“Aren’t you? His shadows reach for your fire. Your fire reaches for his shadows. It’s like watching two people flirt without using words.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Very repressed flirting. Very ‘I refuse to acknowledge my feelings’ flirting. But still flirting.”
“Rurik.” My voice carries a warning.
“What? I’m making valid observations. It’s not my fault your magic is more honest than either of you.”
The construct trembles. Nasyra’s jaw tightens. I can see her fighting to maintain control, every muscle locked against the surge of emotion Rurik’s words are provoking.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” she accuses.
“Obviously.” Rurik grins. “How else are you going to learn to control your fire when someone’s actively trying to provoke you? The real world won’t be polite about it. Might as well practice with someone who won’t actually try to kill you.”
“Debatable,” she mutters. But the construct stabilizes. She’s learning to hold it even through the frustration, channeling the emotion into fuel rather than explosion.
I catch Rurik’s eye. He winks.
