The air explodes, the magic flowing from my fingers igniting into brilliant flame. The practice arena’s sand shoots up toward the blinding sky as tongues of red and orange mate to spawn smoke and sparks.

I stumble backward, my body striking a wall of hard muscle. The scent of pine and citrus washes over me, beating back the bitter tang of ash filling the broiling air. Tye’s corded arms wrap around my body, cocooning me in power and safety. For a split second, everything goes silent and still.

And then the magic I threw strikes the ward protecting the top of the arena, the dull bummm of impact echoing through my body. A heartbeat seems to stretch on for an eternity . . . before all that debris I so gloriously sent up into the air rains right back down on me. The sand, the rocks, the flames.

I scream, raising my arms to block my face, as if that will do any good. I might be able to echo Tye’s magic as if my body were some preternatural mirror, but I certainly can’t reflect any of his control of the bloody power.

Tye’s arms tighten around me, confident and unyielding. Small pulses ripple through the phantom limb of my magic as Tye nudges it aside, his own power stretching with lazy grace and taking over. An instant later, the falling debris crashes against Tye’s shimmering shield, the rocks and sand and fire sliding down obediently to sputter out against the ground.

My heart stutters, my breath coming in hard, sharp bursts, my shoulders pressing shamelessly against Tye. My body, still filled to the brim with the echo of his magic, is somehow awake down to each fiber while feeling like absolute mush. I hadn’t realized just how powerful the large, easygoing male truly is, not before now. Echoing Tye’s magic is akin to leashing a wild tiger; you’ve little control over who holds whom. And when that leash snaps . . . I shudder, looking at the five-foot crater in the middle of the practice arena where a candle once stood.

“I . . .” My voice breaks, my mouth dry. I can’t bear to turn my head toward where the other members of our quint, River, Coal, and Shade, stand witness to my latest disaster. The ancient magic that made me a weaver, able to echo and weave together the magic of others, unfortunately failed to send an instructional text along. In the week since the second trial announced my ability to the whole Citadel, Autumn has had help from Klarissa herself to cobble together what’s known of my power, which is little beyond its theoretical potential. For now, I’m failing gloriously at controlling just one magical cord—one that Tye wields as easily as he breathes—let alone four.

Maybe mastering such magic takes centuries. I have one more week—as far back as River was able to push our retake of the first trial. Stars, but I hate the Citadel’s damn rules. Its deadly games. Maybe a weaver was never meant to be a mortal.

Tye’s velvety lips brush my ear, reclaiming my attention. My body reacts to the sensual touch involuntarily, blood diverting to the suddenly sensitive juncture of my neck and ear.

“You do like things big, don’t you, lass?” Tye whispers.

I—I gasp as Tye’s sharp teeth nip the top of my earlobe. The tiny sting races through me, indignation shoving away the fear. My mouth dries, the sensation tingling along my skin. “Bastard,” I hiss.

Tye chuckles and slips his hands lower on my waist, resting his large palms comfortably on the crests of my hips. “That’s my lass.”

“I did technically light the candle,” I mutter. After my one and only training session with River, when I felt none of his magic, I expected the chief problem going forward to lie squarely in the “it’s not working” camp. Instead, with Tye’s fire magic, I’m fortunate if I don’t blow up the entire mountaintop. The image of a tiger returns to my thoughts. Adorable when sleeping, apocalyptic when nudged awake.

“Let’s try it again, Leralynn,” River says, stepping toward Tye and me. The commander’s gray eyes are steady, but the hand he runs through his short brown hair betrays his frustration with the absolute lack of progress. Beautiful, hard, and the most closed-off male I’ve ever met—immortal or otherwise—the prince of Slait is used to elite fae warriors, not twenty-year-old magical strays. Face unreadable, River tosses me another candle from his never-ending stash, the hunk of wax thunking down a foot away from me. “This time, try to light the wick, not the world.”

I glare at the candle, a sibling to the ten others I’ve massacred this afternoon. Not only am I efficiently not weaving mystically powerful magical knots, but I think I’m actually getting worse with each repetition. At this rate, next week’s trial will probably roast the whole Citadel until it can be served to Mors with a side of potatoes.

“Ready, Lilac Girl?” Tye asks softly.

I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, holding on to the feeling of Tye’s muscular body warming my back. “Has magically lighting a candle ever saved anyone’s life?” I ask, keeping my voice low enough for only Tye to hear. Buying a few more seconds to shore up my resolve. “I think it’s safe to say that if I need to use your fire magic, it will be for something more spectacular than creating an evening ambience.”

“Is waging war the only use you can think of for this new toy?” Tye clicks his tongue, his hands tightening on my hips. “I thought mortals had better imaginations.”

“I—” My mouth snaps shut midsentence as tiny prickles of heat suddenly dance along my abdomen, circling my navel. Prick. Prick. Prick. The quick, hot touches scatter over my skin, each sizzling prickle igniting my nerves. Teasing my body. My breath catches, the world blinking around me for a heartbeat, then focusing with inappropriate intensity low in my pelvis. “What are you doing?”

“Mmm,” Tye drawls lazily, even as his iron grip holds me in place. “I’m . . . educating.”

The sparks tour my navel one more time before impudently hopping lower.

My thighs clench together, my skin flushing with enough heat to rival the inferno of moments ago. Certainly enough for Tye to take note. The male bends his head, first his nose and then his velvet lips brushing the inside of my ear. “I do enjoy watching you learn, lass.”

Prick. Prick. Prick.

I wriggle, which only presses me deeper into Tye’s chest. Into a different hardness. Stars.

“The others are watching.” My words escape through clenched teeth, my body rising to the provocation even as my mind screams the wrongness of it. Do the other males realize what’s happening? Can they smell the wetness quickly coating the inside of my thighs? The insistent throbbing that makes standing still impossible? My face blazes. Thank the stars, the uniform’s black pants and long, wine-colored tunic have a chance of concealing the visual evidence of my arousal, if not its scent. My thick auburn hair, which started in a neat wreath around the back of my head, now curls against my damp temples and sticks to my forehead. I’m surprised steam isn’t rising off my skin where it touches the cool air.

Ice. I make myself think of ice. And slimy sclices. And . . .

Prick. Prick. Prick.

I bite back a scream as Tye’s sparks march lower again. When they infiltrate my sex, my heart stops altogether. There is hair there. Hair that can catch fire.

A soft, sensual chuckle. “I think you are a little wet to burn, lass,” Tye murmurs, as if reading my mind.

“Tye, please.” My voice is strangled. Breathless with the focus on one very awake spot, which zings with every beat of my now-galloping heart. With every touch of Tye’s prickling magic. I try to shove myself subtly away from his hold and succeed only in dancing in place. Shifting my weight under me, I bite back a whimper. “You’ve made your point.”

“Oh, if it’s my point you are after, just squirm your backside a bit more, and—”

“Bastard,” I gasp, my sex now moist and starting to throb hard enough to make the world flicker at the edges. My toes curl inside my boots as blazing heat consumes my skin, my face.  

A deep chuckle rumbles through Tye’s chest, the extra vibrations little helping my cause. “I’m only showing you the versatility of the magic,” he drawls. “Since you brought it up.”

Suddenly the ground shakes beneath us, knocking Tye and me unceremoniously onto the sand. The sparks wreaking havoc between my legs sputter out against the slick moisture, leaving an ache so intense that I hiss from denied need. Rising onto my hands and knees, I look up to find River striding toward us.

“My apologies,” the prince of Slait says, extending his hand with bloody dignified courtesy. “My magic seems to have slipped its leash for a moment.”

Tye climbs to his feet, a grin on his face as he shakes his head to rid his red hair of sand. “Happens to the best of us.” His emerald eyes and small silver earring catch the sun.

Face flaming, I scramble to my feet, my pulse and breath both racing. My eyes grip the latest of River’s candles, my one lifeline out of this mess before one of the males says something that really does make me burst from embarrassment. Candle. Exercise. Magic. Light the candle.

I focus on the power I still feel rumbling from Tye—wicked and strong and gloriously amused. The magic echoes through me as it has all morning, its mischievous tang prickling my tongue like an unripe fruit. I extend my hands toward the candle, the image of a tiny white flame filling my world. I let the power roll from me, a phantom limb following the direction of my hands—

The air crackles with lightning. Missing the candle entirely, the flaming sphere I didn’t see forming rushes toward River like a wild beast scenting prey. “Watch out!” I scream.

The commander throws up a hand and the fire I just launched ricochets off his defense and heads right back toward me.

“Shield!” Tye shouts.

I drop to the ground and am still trying to imagine how to weave the power into a barrier when the air before me hardens like glass. River’s earthy scent fills my nose as my errant flames slide down the male’s second shield and sizzle against the sand.

Cringing, I sit on my heels and force myself to meet the prince’s gray eyes. “Thank you.”

Before River can answer, a loud, slow clapping sounds from the observation platform above. The practice arena falls silent. River pulls me up to my feet and behind him as Klarissa climbs down the ladder and strides toward us.

“How wonderfully effective.” The female’s musical alto rings through the arena as Coal and Shade, the latter in his wolf form, come to stand beside Tye, River, and me.

My breath catches. How long was the elder standing there? Watching. Judging. Planning.

“Is this what you call training nowadays, River?” Klarissa’s rich lavender gown swishes around her ankles as she turns to the quint commander. Her gleaming dark-brown waves frame a tear-shaped diamond hanging against her forehead like a third eye. Her olive skin looks smooth as porcelain in the sunlight. “One trainee has free rein to do as she wishes? No consequences. No need for correction. If I’d known the effectiveness of this new pedagogy, I’d have brought lemonade and sweet tarts along.”

It’s a battle to keep myself from stepping back, turning my face to the ground. Not from Klarissa’s words themselves—I know better than to expect anything short of well-aimed poison from the viper—but because of how close they hit to the frustration I’ve seen in River’s eyes. It isn’t working, what we’ve been doing. I know it. River knows it. And now Klarissa knows it too.

River clasps his hands behind his back. Slow and controlled. His tall, hard body owning every bit of space around him, owning the whole arena without trying. The protectiveness fanning from him surrounds me as potently as Tye’s arms did minutes ago. “A pleasure to see you today, Elder. Can we be of assistance?”

Klarissa picks at invisible lint on her sleeve. “I require your aid in protecting Lunos from Mors’s Emperor Jawrar. Can I expect your quint to be ready to play its part?”

River’s jaw tightens. “We are . . . heading in the proper direction, Elder.”

Klarissa smiles, her painted lips parting to show long white canines. “I’m glad to hear it. Shall we test your weaver in the pet pen in the meantime?” Catching my confused frown, the female captures my gaze. Her sharp eyes make my stomach tighten. “The portion of this practice arena that exists in the Gloom is well stocked with a variety of Mors trash that’ve wandered into our traps. Piranhas, sclices, trakans. I’m surprised your friends have not told you about it; most quints start practicing there as soon as they pass a single trial. A small taste of the real world.”

“Klarissa.” River’s voice is cold and hard enough to sever steel.

She turns to him, her own words no softer. “A weaver should make your quint stronger than any Lunos has ever seen. It takes some doing to turn an advantage into a liability, but I must say, you are managing it with superb efficiency.” Shaking her head in disgust, the female turns her back to us.

I swallow, my chest tightening around my ribs. “Klarissa is right,” I say softly. “We have to do something about me.”

“Yes.” River nods. “We have to get you the hell away from here.”