“Most mothers are not seers,” he answered simply. “Now, are you ready?”

“To do what?” She did not like the look on his face.

“You like flowers? Decapitentur flores. Eleventur.”

Thousands of white blossoms leaped into the air, impossibly pretty in the liquid light.

“Your training starts. En garde.” The prince raised his wand. “Ventus.”

A squall of flowers hit her with the force of thrown pebbles.

“Divert them,” said the prince.

She waved the wand in her hand and imagined parting the tide of flowers. All she got for her trouble was a greater battering. Annoyed, she sent out a plume of fire. Immediately, something much bigger smacked her on the upper arm.

“What the—”

“Just cow dung. Now concentrate. I should not have to remind you this exercise is for air only.”

Just cow dung?

And what did he know about elemental magic? Elemental mages didn’t exercise. They either had an affinity for a particular element or they didn’t. She’d known from the earliest moment of awareness that she could manipulate fire, water, and earth. And she did so, if not effortlessly—earth always required some exertion—then at least easily enough.

She ducked as a particularly large cluster of flowers careened toward her. “You are going to poke my eyes out.”

“Do not let me.”

She sent a huge spray of water his way, only to have it all thrown back at her, followed by a cowpat that hit her solidly in the rib cage.

She hurled her wand at him.

He stepped aside. “You have a good arm. Maybe Wintervale will get his wish after all.”

She wiped her wet face with her hand. “What do you care?”

“I do not.”

Her wand flew back at her. Flowers continued to batter her. And they hurt where they hit. She did her best to push them all back at him and pockmark his smug face. But nothing happened.

His lips moved. Blades of grass, a forest of them, rose straight up. His lips moved again. The blades of grass turned in midair, to point their sharp ends at her.

Blood drained from her face. The flowers had only hurt. The blades of grass, with their sharply serrated edges, would shred her.

They sped toward her. Instinctively she threw up a wall of fire to burn them to cinders. He put out her fire. She called for fresh fire. He made a prison for it.

She commanded the ground about her to rise up into an earthen wall. He shattered the wall before it had reached a foot in height.

“This is not about thwarting me,” he said.

“Then don’t try to hurt me.”

“If you do not feel strongly about it, you will not be able to unblock whatever it is that makes you unable to command air.”

“Maybe I don’t want to unblock it. Not for you, you rat.”

The vivisection-by-dull-knife pain of the blood oath came back with a vengeance. She swayed with the intensity of it. But she would not humiliate herself before him by collapsing to the ground. She would not. She would remain standing and defiant.

The grass scratched her face as she fell.

She burned with the force of her anger.

Her hand, of its own will, rose. Her wand pointed to the sky; her mind issued the command.

Before Titus quite understood what she intended, he had already jabbed his wand above his head. “Praesidium maximum!”

He had tested this shield against fire, but never lightning.

The sound of the lightning striking his shield was like that of grinding glass. The force of it was bone-snapping. He could barely keep his arm raised, barely scrape together enough strength to sustain the shield, which gave away inch by inch beneath the brilliant onslaught that made dots dance in his vision.

He grunted with the strain of keeping his wand aloft. The muscles of his shoulders and arms screamed in pain. He wanted to shut his eyes against the unbearable light.

How could lightning that came out of nowhere go on and on? How much more could his shield take? He felt it in his humerus, the obliteration of the shield, the cracking and splintering, air returning to being just air, and no protection at all.

The shield split altogether. His heart rammed up his throat. But the lightning, too, had spent itself. The air sputtered with remnant electricity.

He had survived a lightning strike.

“You will need to do better,” he said—and hoped that his voice did not sound as limp as the rest of him felt. “When I went to Black Bastion, Helgira’s lightning killed me outright.”

She slowly came to her feet. “Helgira’s been dead thousands of years, if she ever lived.”

“Her tale is one of the training grounds in the Crucible—one of the more advanced ones.”

Her lips pulled tight. “You can die in the Crucible?”

“Of course.”

“With no consequences to your real person?”

“It is not pleasant. You die in the Crucible, and it will give you a deep aversion to going back to the scene of your death.”

“You are in the Crucible now.”

“True, but I have no plans to ever visit Black Bastion again. Someday, though, I might send you there for a battle royal against Helgira.”

She shrugged. “Just because you fear her doesn’t mean I will.”

Titus had not slept much the night before, waiting for the armored chariots to depart. As he stared at their barely visible metallic underbellies, he had gone over the events of the day again and again, knowing his actions had crossed a line—and knowing that he would have done exactly the same if he had to again.

At some point he had stopped defending himself. She was right: he was a villain who would stop at nothing to achieve his ends. And looking at her now, drenched, dirt-smeared, but unbowed, he realized had further to go yet.

If anyone could find a way to break a blood oath, she would. He must find some other way of holding her fast.

Or even better, find a way so that she would not wish to leave, even if she could.

But he could think of nothing—yet.

“That is enough for today,” he said, pocketing his wand. “Time for school.”

It was a sunny morning. Uniformed pupils exited residential houses in a steady stream. Along the way, junior boys clustered around various holes-in-the-wall—sock shops, the prince called them—buying coffee and freshly baked buns.

He took her to a bigger place, not exactly a proper restaurant but an establishment with two interconnected dining rooms, catering exclusively to senior boys. She ate a buttered bun and observed—it never hurt to know who was popular, who had information to share, and whom to avoid.

But even as she assessed her new surroundings, she felt herself similarly appraised. This was not new. Ever since they first met, the prince had watched her intensely—after all, he believed her to be the means to his impossible ends. But since their exit from the Crucible, his gaze had seemed more . . . personal.

“What do you want now, Your Highness?”

He raised a brow. “I already have you. Should I want anything else?”

She pushed away her empty plate. “You have that scheming look in your eyes.”

He turned the handle of his own coffee cup, from which he’d yet to take a sip. “That is terrible. I should only ever sport a condescending look. We never want to give the impression that I am capable of—or interested in—strategizing.”

“You’re fudging your answers, prince. I want the truth.”

The corners of his lips turned up barely perceptibly. “I was thinking of how to best hold on to you, my dear Fairfax who would leave me at the first opportunity.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Since when is a blood oath not enough to keep a mage enslaved?”

“You are right, of course. I should not doubt my own success.”

“Then why do you doubt your own success?”

He looked her in the eye. “Only because you are infinitely precious to me, Fairfax, and the loss of you would be devastating.”