CHAPTER SEVEN

Quinlan’s first three weeks in Axaris flew by. Between training, guard duty, and tormenting the Princess of Axaria in his every spare moment, he hadn’t touched his magic since the day he had burst through her window—and now it nagged at him, an incessant itch. Little spurts of magic weren’t enough. He needed to let go, but even in the deepest corners of the palace gardens, he never knew who might be watching.

“Oi, Quinlan, coming to dinner?” Gino sang as he buttoned his jacket. Even in the dim light of the barracks, his spiked hair glistened with a copious amount of gel. Every morning, Gino woke before everyone else, just so he could hog the mirror. The other three male Elites already waited by the door—gangly Jack, with his easy, boisterous laugh; silver-tongued Casper, whose words were as sharp as the two ruby-hilted knives that always hung low at his hips; and grizzly bearded Old Silas, who Quinlan learned had only just turned thirty, but simply “Old” because he was the oldest Elite.

Quinlan shot them a grin from his bunk, hiding his jittering fingers in his lap. “You go ahead.”

Jack blew him a kiss. “Bye, dear. Don’t play with the stove, and remember, bedtime is at eight!”

Quinlan rolled his eyes. “So, light your bed on fire by eight. Got it.”

Casper whistled. “Listen, Quinlan, there’s no need for arson. If you want Jack in your bed so badly, just ask him.”

Quinlan raised a certain finger, and Casper’s uniform burst into flames. Old Silas just shook his head while the other boys fell over themselves in laughter as Casper yelped and dove to the floor, rolling and batting at himself to extinguish the flames before realizing they hadn’t actually caused any harm.

“You sly fox,” Casper said, grinning despite himself. He was the craftiest of the bunch and the only other male fire-wielder, and Quinlan had taken to him quickly. “The last time I tried that trick I nearly burned a man to a crisp. How did you do it?”

Quinlan winked. “Trade secret.”

Gino’s stomach interrupted with a deafening growl. “Food. Now.”

The boys jostled each other to the door, still hooting, signature red cloaks billowing. Their guffaws faded and left Quinlan, finally, to the silence.

Three weeks had passed, and Quinlan still didn’t have one of those damned cloaks—one side a deep crimson and the other sable black, marking him as an “official” Elite Royal Guard. Rose had been presented one a few days ago by Captain Covington after she had recited more poisons and their antidotes than all the other Elites combined, mended a shattered leg, and disarmed four patrol guards on the Wall from three hundred feet away with specialized arrows. His cousin had only rubbed it in his face about a dozen times so far.

For a moment, Quinlan simply closed his eyes and basked in the solitude, the crackle of the hearth his only companion. He loosed an exhausted sigh. His tailbone still ached from a week ago, when Princess Asterin had dropped by during a combat session and volunteered to be his sparring partner. Then, in front of everyone, she had knocked him, quite literally, onto his ass. Ever since, she’d “taken pity” on him—by forcing him to practice with her every morning. She’d gone after Rose, too, but even as children, Rose had always bested Quinlan in both hand-to-hand combat and swordplay. After a single duel, Asterin had grudgingly deemed his cousin’s skills adequate.

Quinlan had never felt comfortable with any weapon save for his magic and the three priceless Ignatian daggers Rose’s mother had gifted to him on his thirteenth birthday. Their iridescent blades were ribbed with countless folds from the deepest of the Ignatian forges, and he had yet to find something they couldn’t slice through. Unfortunately, his new mentor expected him to demonstrate proficiency fighting with any weapon or object.

Even a carrot? he had asked, and the challenge had shone in her eyes before he’d even perceived it as one. That had been an interesting morning.

While he humiliated himself in carrotplay, Asterin had admitted to him that she still struggled to summon the other elements—but the omnistone had done its job, awakening her dormant powers. Now it was just a matter of training. Quinlan offered to help, but for whatever reason, Asterin was hell-bent on practicing in private.

Privacy. He definitely lacked that here. Looking around the male Elite barracks, complete with five neatly made bunks, a chest for possessions at the foot of each, a table in the center covered in a mess of playing cards and the odd bits and bobs the boys used for betting, and the adjoined communal bathing chambers, Quinlan couldn’t help but wish for home. Home meant his own chambers. He hadn’t shared sleeping quarters since studying at the Academia Principalis in Eradoris. And although he’d made easy friends with his fellow soldiers, they were just so bloody noisy. The girls’ barracks were next door, and Rose constantly complained that they could hear the boys yelling through the wall, but Quinlan hadn’t ever once heard even a peep from their side.

Ten soldiers in total made up the Axarian Princess’s Elite Royal Guard. Only the Immortals knew what division he and Rose would have ended up in if those two spots hadn’t been open—though, knowing Rose, she’d likely planned it right from the very start. While the boys had Old Silas, the girls had the youngest Elite—a fierce fifteen-year-old named Alicia, who Rose said could fight better unarmed in pitch darkness than most of the palace guards could in broad daylight. Aside from Rose and Alicia, there was the ever-silent Nicole, with her cool gray eyes and a sheaf of black hair that fell past her waist. She spoke twice a day if they were lucky, and Quinlan constantly forgot about her existence—at least, until she had her blade pinned against his throat. Laurel was Nicole’s bright-eyed opposite—bubbly and chatty, distracting any one of them with her jokes and charm. Meanwhile, she was likely thieving away valuables or weapons from their person at every opportunity, that lovely smile never faltering. Finally, there was Hayley, the oldest of the females. According to Jack, she only had three facial expressions—impassive, irritated, and smug. From what Quinlan had seen so far, Jack hadn’t been exaggerating in the slightest. She had also come this close to decapitating Quinlan once with—of all things—her shield.

From beneath his pillow, Quinlan pulled out the little silk pouch holding the omnistone, turning it over in his hands. Rose had planned for that, too, even though they’d both known it would be a gamble. And Rose hated gambling—but over the years, Quinlan had learned that when she did … she always walked away with the winning hand.

Either way, one thing was for certain—the Princess of Axaria was powerful. I could have killed you, she had yelled after he burst through her window. She’d come close, the brat, but he was used to people trying to kill him.

And what was more … she still had so much potential to fulfill.

Outside of training, Quinlan had started making increasingly ludicrous excuses to seek out her company. No matter how many times he riled her or pissed her off, she simply returned the favor. Most recently, she had invited him for a walk—just the two of them—in the palace gardens. While poking fun at one another, she had lured him unawares into a corner of the enormous hedge maze on the south side of the palace and then bolted off. It had taken him two curse-filled hours to find his way out, and he later found out from Luna that she had been watching him struggle for the entire time from an overhead window, weeping with laughter.

The truth was that Asterin had been the best distraction to turn up in his life for a long while. Something to focus on, to keep him from the memories he had tried for so long to keep buried, only to discover that the deeper he dug, the closer they rose to the surface. The sting of salt tears and blood dripping down his skin. That horrible, searing heat, scorching his back, his hands. The cold hopelessness of being alone. Now he forced himself to remember so that he could remind himself of how much stronger he had grown, but the pain never faded.

He rubbed the scars on his wrists, charmed into invisibility, his eyes flicking to the tattoo on his left wrist of a fox entwined with a serpent—marking his everlasting loyalty to the House of the Serpent. For a long time, his powers had posed more of a danger than protection. Only after years of training could he rein them in.

Quinlan tossed the omnistone aside and called upon a hail of fire arrows, his magic shuddering out of him with delicious relief. He watched as the arrows whizzed around the room, their smoky trails billowing up to the low ceiling. He didn’t need a firestone, or any stone at all for that matter, but he kept one on him for appearances’ sake. Relying on an affinity stone had only brought him a childhood of misery—but these arrows could deliver that misery tenfold. Could blaze through cities like a match lit to parchment, devouring all they touched to cinders, any building disintegrating to dust at the slightest wayward wind. They could burn through this very palace, taking everything and everyone he wished with it.

Including Asterin’s handsome Guardian … Quinlan snorted at himself and rubbed his temple, his thoughts once more returning to the princess. His arrows dissipated with a soft hiss. A few glowing embers drifted down, singeing his tunic. The burn marks on the fabric faded away with a brush of his hand, the taste of ash and magic filling his mouth.

He cursed, suddenly remembering that he didn’t live alone. Hopefully the fumes would fade by the time the others returned. They still had drills with Captain Covington to look forward to after dinner.

His stomach grumbled. As Gino so eloquently put it … Food. Now. Getting up from his bunk, Quinlan stretched and left the barracks, climbing the stairs and following the sound of Orion’s unmistakable laugh to Mess Hall.

The other Elites saved his usual spot for him, between Rose and Casper. Quinlan’s gaze lingered on Asterin, seated mere feet away—and yet, with the way her Guardian had her enrapt with some stupid story, it felt as though they were stuck in separate universes. Rose elbowed him, eyebrow arched. He cleared his throat and reached for a soup tureen, chancing a look over his shoulder to the flock of nobles in all their finery roosting at the head table, looking down on the rest of the court as they nestled closer around the finest of them all.

Quinlan had heard many tales regaling the beauty of the Queen of Axaria—and while few were actually true, he couldn’t deny those about her eyes. They were the stunning teal of the Syr Sea, and, if the tales were to be believed, an extraordinary one-of-a-kind—not even inherited by her own daughter, who was currently biting down on a bread roll to stifle her laughter.

Asterin caught his stare and raised an eyebrow. What, asshole? she mouthed.

He shrugged, lifting his glass in toast. To you, he mouthed back. Brat.

Her smile could have lit the darkest of nights.

And though he’d never seen eyes quite like Queen Priscilla’s before, he would trade them for a particular pair of emerald greens any day.