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Pain spreads beneath the scar.

I draw chaos into my muscles, sharpening speed and strength. Magic darkens the veins along my wrist.

“This is no longer practice,” Joran says.

“Defend yourself.”

I drive him toward the wall.

He turns my blade aside and steps away instead of answering with a strike. “Yesterday’s magic aggravated the wound.”

“You know nothing about it.”

“I know you have hidden it for years.”

The curse twists.

Cold becomes fire, then something worse than either. It drives through my side and wraps around my spine.

I force chaos toward the scar.

The magic recoils.

Black light bursts from my hand and scorches the practice floor. The curse remains untouched, a foreign knot my power cannot enter.

Joran sees the failure.

I lunge before he can speak.

The movement tears the last of my control apart.

Pain erupts from the puckered scar. My practice blade falls from my fingers and strikes the stones.

I drop to one knee.

Joran reaches me before I fall farther. One hand catches my shoulder; the other grips my arm.

“Do not summon the healer,” I say.

“You can barely breathe.”

“Not the Zagfer.”

The hall tilts. Sweat chills across my dark skin despite the heat of exertion.

Joran pulls my arm over his shoulders and forces me upright.

“Your chambers,” he says.

“No witnesses.”

“There are none.”

He half carries me through a side passage and up the private stair. Each step drives another wave of pain through my side. Chaos gathers instinctively, then retreats whenever it touches the curse.

Useless.

Joran gets me into my chambers and lowers me onto the bed.