Page 28 of The Witch They Fear

He tilts his head, genuinely curious. "What does that feel like? Having magic, I mean. Vampires have abilities but they're—I don't know, they're just there. Extensions of what I already am. From what I understand, witch magic is more like its own thing. Separate from you."

"Separate but not," I say, blocking his next strike. It's sloppy, but it counts. "It's like having a roommate who lives in your chest. Sometimes we agree on what to do. Mostly she has her own ideas and I'm just trying to keep her from redecorating."

He laughs. "That sounds exhausting."

"You have no idea."

We reset. Go again. This time he adds a pivot to the sequence and I almost keep up.

"So what year are you?" I ask between strikes.

"Second." He blocks my clumsy overhead swing without effort. "You?"

"Technically first. Functionally zero. I'm three weeks late and twelve years behind."

"Twelve years?" His staff pauses mid-reset. "That's how long you were at the—"

My stomach drops. "Yeah."

He doesn't push. Just nods, adjusts his grip, and comes at me again—a slow, telegraphed strike to my right that I manage to catch on the shaft of my staff. The impact vibrates up my arms.

"Not bad," he says. "You're reading my shoulders. That's good instinct."

"I had a lot of time to learn how to read people. Not much else to do in a facility."

"Fair." He resets. "I can’t imagine what that must have been like, but summers at the family estate can get quite boring with the… older generations."

I snort. He grins—crooked. My stomach does a little flip.

We drill again. He calls out the sequence this time—"block, strike, pivot"—and I follow, my body starting to find the rhythm even if my muscles are fighting against it. On the pivot, I overcorrect and nearly plant my staff in the dirt. He steadies me with a hand on my elbow.

Quick. Light. Gone before I can flinch.

"Feet wider," he says. "You've got a low center of gravity—use it."

I widen my stance. Try the pivot again. It's better.

"Where's your family from?" I ask, because talking makes the burning in my arms easier to ignore.

"Baton Rouge, originally. We've been in Louisiana forever—eight generations. My mom runs a blood dispensary in the Quarter—one of the licensed ones, not the black-market stuff—and my dad manages estates for one of the bigger houses. Boring, stable, deeply un-dramatic. Everything a vampire family isn't supposed to be." He throws a slow strike that I block cleanly. "My biggest rebellion was signing up for the advanced combat track instead of political theory."

"Scandalous."

"My dad nearly had a coronary. He's convinced I'm going to get my teeth knocked out and bring shame upon the Vane legacy." He puts on a voice—deeper, stuffier, dripping with faux-concern. "'Emric, nobody respects a vampire with a crooked fang.'"

I laugh. Actually laugh—deep in my belly. He's grinning again, pleased with himself in an easy, uncomplicated way that has nothing to do with performance.

"Does it ever bother you?" I ask, resetting my stance. "Being a vampire here but not... one of those vampires? The ones with their names on the buildings?"

He wipes sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. Takes a second before answering—not dodging, just giving the question the weight it deserves.

"Sometimes," he says. "You learn pretty fast where you stand. The noble houses don't let you forget it—not with anything as obvious as cruelty, just... proximity. They sit together, train together, summer at each other's estates. And if your last name doesn't open those doors, no amount of talent is going to kick them down." He resets his stance, comes at me with a measured strike I barely catch. "But honestly? I'd rather be here on ability than legacy. The legacy kids have everything handed to them and half of them can barely hold a staff. I earned my spot. Nobody can take that."

There's no bitterness in it. Just clarity. The quiet confidence of someone who looked at the game, understood the rules were rigged, and decided to play anyway on his own terms.

I respect the hell out of that.

"What about the… the daylight thing? Walking in the sun—is that a status marker too?"