“That’s enough, children. Put your things away and begin your practice. Pearce, show me what you remember from our last class. Your ice fractals were dismal and uncreative.”
Uncreative?Grayson Pearce couldn’t fake being uncreative if he tried.
Nix is relieved to see that the rude criticism doesn’t land hard, bouncing off the thick shell of restraint Grayson has built over the years, but something in his jaw ticks.
“I’ll be back,” he murmurs, stepping away.
“Show him what you’ve got, babe. You got this!”
The grin that breaks across his face at the encouragement is almost better than if Grayson had rubbed his hands together and cackled like a melodramatic villain. Almost.
Nix takes his seat behind the blue line and doesn’t take his eyes off his smiling mate. His expression must be unexpected,as Professor Bixby visibly flinches when he looks up from his plastic-covered tablet.
He shakes it off with a frown. “Well, the class is only fifty minutes, Pearce, get to it.”
Nix feels it the moment Grayson has had enough.
The Plain surges, hot and wild, through their bond. In an instant, all moisture in the once-humid room vanishes. It’s stolen from the air so fast that Nix’s nose burns, sharp and raw, as it does in winter’s driest breath. Around them, frost blossoms in layers, coiling upward in sharp, beautiful arcs.
Within seconds, a six-foot staff forms in Grayson’s hand—solid ice, fractal-cut and glinting like a weapon born from winter itself, and it’s pointed at his professor.
His classmates gasp. Even the toad of a professor blinks—surprised, and more than a little envious. This isn’t some delicate snowflake or decorative icicle—pretty but useless. This is a weapon. And more than that, it’s not just Talent.
It’s Affinity. Not just potential, but power and control.
Grayson holds the icy staff, as if he had always done so, and Nix has to wonder what Professor Toad is going to do about it now that he knows what Grayson has been hiding from him for over a year.
Nix
Grayson holds the icy staff, as if he had always done so, and something flickers in Nix’s memory. Nothing concrete, just a glimmer of the past where Grayson’s hair had been waist-length and white, like Knox’s, and this had been his weapon of choice.
Professor Bixby’s shock doesn’t disappear entirely, but he pushes it down to keep his student’s safety in mind. “Class dismissed—to the library. Go,” Bixby booms, and the awestruck teens scatter like water on a hot skillet, gossip already dripping from their lips. It won’t be long before the whole school knows Grayson created a weapon from thin air and brandished it at his teacher.
The big door slams shut behind the last awestruck youth, hard enough that a single icicle drops and shatters on the floor with a splintering crash. To Bixby’s credit, he doesn’t flinch, eyes on Grayson.
“Pearce, disassemble it. Now.”
Caught in a memory, Grayson grips the staff lightly, tosses it from hand to hand before taking three steps back and twirling it in a single hand as if he’d done so a thousand times. Not a single drop of water melts from his grip, and it flashes in the bright light of the room: light and fierce, blue ice-cold fire.
“Disassemble it!” Bixby booms, throwing his hands up as if he might actually dare to snatch the warrior’s weapon away.
Nix can’t tell if that’s courage or sheer recklessness. He’d come to the Guild ready to kick butt and take names, but Grayson wouldn’t want to hurt his teacher—not like this, not over something as small and sour as envy and pride.
“Step back, Professor Bixby,” Nix says, letting Omega Voice coil through the warning like steam. He’s ready to move if Grayson’s annoyance is still there, snagged somewhere between old memories and new ones.
Humans are as vulnerable to Voice as any other living thing. Bixby’s expression flickers; he takes a stumbling step back, then another, retreating behind the flimsy safety of his desk.
“Gray,” Nix says quietly, “put it away. There’s no threat here.”
The ice staff vaporizes in a puff of steam, the fire in Grayson’s palms returning the vapor to the atmosphere. He wipes his hands on his pants, but they come away dry.
The Plain surges in Nix’s belly, and Grayson is suddenly there, the few feet between them folded like paper. Nix barely has time to suck in a breath before Grayson’s arms are around him, hauling him in against the familiar line of his chest.
Mystical patchouli rides Grayson’s magic straight into Nix’s nose. His pulse stutters, then races, struggling to keep up with the quiet thrum still humming between them.
“That was amazing,” Grayson murmurs, voice gone soft and a little hoarse at the edges, eyes bright with leftover adrenaline. “Like unlocking something I’d forgotten I knew how to do.”
“I guess you meant it when you said you were done hiding,” Nix whispers.
