I walk with Coal to the sparring ring in silence, barely noticing the gleaming white buildings and flowering vines, the manicured lawns and bustle of scholars and warriors going about their business. In my own way, I’ve become used to the Citadel—its toxic sweetness and echoing grandness.

The conversation with River still burns in my chest, making bile crawl up my throat. It’s good that it’s Coal working with me today. Good that in a few minutes I’ll be knocked about so hard, I won’t have time to fume over River’s orders. Good that I’ll have somebody I can try to kill.

“I heard,” Coal says, his voice a low rumble.

“Heard what?” I focus on the sand in front of us, raked smooth by the Citadel’s invisible servants, the fence around it showing a fresh coat of white paint.

The warrior taps his pointed ear. “Your argument with River. Everyone in the suite did.”

Damn fae and their bloody hearing. And here I thought it was the early hour that kept the other males out of the common room. Fine. It wasn’t a secret. “River is a bastard.”

“Yes.” Coal vaults over the fence while I opt for the gate. “But he’s also right.”

My jaw tightens but I keep my thoughts to myself. I’m not going to discuss River with Coal, not when I can’t discuss Coal with Coal. The male saved my life back in the trial arena, plunging himself into his own nightmares until they overwhelmed him. Forcing his strange magic to lash out in agony and bridge the gap between us.

It was Coal’s power flowing through my veins, my muscles, my heart, that let me fight off Malikai. And yet when the fight ended . . . Coal said nothing of it. Not when I asked. Not when I woke drenched in sweat, the echoes of Coal’s nightmares shaking my body. Certainly not when those nightmares flickered in his blue eyes, turning them a shade of purple.

All my males have sacrificed so much for my sake—surrendering their dignity to wear the runes of Citadel initiates, suffering echoes of hell to grant me magic, offering their lives for mine—but discussing it? That’s a bridge too far.

Pulling off the wide sash holding the uniform tunic against his body, Coal hangs the cloth on the waist-high rail. A moment later, he grabs the back of his shirt with thickly corded arms, drawing it over his head without disturbing a single hair in his tight blond bun. My mouth dries, my hands suddenly longing to touch Coal in a way that has nothing to do with combat. His bare torso is smooth and defined enough to make a sculptor jealous, the hard pectorals mirroring the carved squares of his abdomen. A thin pink line snakes around the curve of his left shoulder, the fading footprint of a whip’s tail that must have wrapped itself around his flesh last week. I know the view from the back is far worse, last week’s lashings joining a crisscrossed pattern of old scars from his days in Mors, nearly covering up the odd tattoo twining down his spine.

My jaw tightens. As he dismissed my request this morning, River didn’t fight against Coal’s punishment either, not even when I begged the prince to keep Coal away from the whipping post. A commander and his underlings. Seeing that pink line on Coal’s skin, I realize just how sick of River’s attitude I’m getting.

Coal’s piercing blue gaze follows the path of mine and hardens. “Stop worrying about my flesh and start worrying for your own.”

Well, at least he didn’t guess the other reason I was gazing at his chest. Grabbing a practice sword off a rack, the male tosses it into my hands before selecting another weapon for himself. He swings the sword in a wide, lazy circle, even that casual movement a study in precision. “Speaking of which, Shade’s healing magic is still recovering, so whatever marks you collect this morning are yours to keep.”

I twirl the wood, getting used to its weight. A month ago I’d never even held a weapon, and now the blade greets me like—well, it would be a lie to call it a friend, but perhaps an acquaintance. A translator. If normal beings use words and phrases to communicate, Coal prefers blows and parries. I tie my unruly auburn hair back into a knot and bring the practice blade to ready guard. “Save your breath, Coal. I’ve not been afraid of you for some time.”

Coal’s eyes darken, flecks of purple flashing through the brilliant blue. “That is a mistake, mortal.” His low voice sends a shiver down my spine. Before I can respond—before I can think—the male swings his blade into my sword arm.

I hear the strike before I feel it, a limb-numbing pain that explodes inside my flesh. I swallow a shout, only the threat of a repeat blow keeping my weapon in my hand. Bastard. Bloody sadistic bastard. Every thought of caressing Coal’s velvet muscles goes out of my mind in an instant. Blood simmers in my veins, pulsing through my newly forming welt. Through my head. My world narrows to Coal.

His blade circles back, his muscles rippling beneath bare skin. The weapon twirls smartly in the air and snaps for my skull.

Planting my foot in the sand, I thrust my blade up to parry the blow. The wooden swords meet deafeningly above my head, making my teeth clank together as my arms buckle beneath the strain. That attack—it too was harder than it needed to be.

“What the hell are you doing?” I gasp, stepping away from the clash just before Coal’s sword smashes through both my defense and my head. “Are you insane?”

“Insane?” Coal parrots, aiming for my knees. When I jump away to save myself from a shattered joint, the tip of his blade cruelly clips my shoulder. “Insane is a weaver playing with magic instead of controlling it. Insane is a mortal challenging the quint’s commander. Insane”—Coal circles me, his sword slicing a pattern of deadly blows—“is training the same way and expecting a different result.”

I open my mouth but shut it again without speaking, the need to protect my head outweighing all thought.

“Klarissa was right yesterday.” Coal spits the words, his muscles moving in smooth, deadly arcs. Clank. Clank. Clank. His eyes are dark. Merciless. “What we’ve been doing is child’s play that does no one any good. And I, for one, am done playing.”

I say nothing. I’ve no breath to waste on such frivolities.

Coal’s attack takes on a pattern, each blow making up in power for what it lacks in uniqueness. Low, middle, high. Low, middle, high. Clank, clank, clank.

My breath hitches, my muscles burning as I struggle to keep up with the dance. Each parry, each step, a desperate bid to forestall the inevitable impact. Sweat soaks my hair and drips down to sting my eyes, my boots’ purchase on the sand more precarious with each lunge. I sidestep, bringing my sword up to block a high blow that I can’t even see but guess is coming.

A harsh pain blossoms across my ribs instead. I gasp, the futility of it all cinching like a noose around my throat. Stars, Coal hasn’t done this to me since that first training day in the mortal world. My foot slips and I fall to one knee.

The warrior doesn’t even slow down.

Our blades crack above my head, pressing against each other. My lungs burn, my arms shaking with the effort of staving off his blade. “Stop it!”

Coal kicks me, his foot sinking deep into my solar plexus.

I fall back so hard that the world winks. The sword flies from my hand. With the next heartbeat, the male is atop me, his powerful thighs straddling my ribs, his weight an immovable stone atop my chest.

“Better?” Coal demands, showing me his teeth.

I buck, grasping mentally for my training, some part of me still aware that bridging to create space is my only route of escape. Except I can’t. Can’t lift my hips from the sand. Can’t shift Coal’s weight off me. Can’t move the wrists Coal now has pinned.

The world darkens around its edges until nothing but Coal’s perfect, chiseled face fills my sight. My pulse pounds as the male leans down, suffocatingly close. Stealing what little air remains to pull into my lungs. Coal’s metallic musk chokes me, his hands on my wrists so tight that my fingers go numb.

“Stop.” I mean to shout the word, but it comes out as a mere puff of air. My eyes sting, my body screams at its restraints. I long to go limp, to stop fighting in hopes that darkness might claim me, stopping the torment. Except I can’t even do that, for the promise Coal once extracted from me. Never stop fighting.

The male forces my wrists together above my head, transferring his hold until one of his large hands traps both of mine. Lifting off me for the briefest of moments, Coal forces me face-down on the sand. Just like . . .

Just like I was in the trial. The fight with Malikai.

Nausea and panic race through me as I follow the realization to its terrifying conclusion. If Coal is recreating my trial fight, then we are in act two of that horrid play. And the final act, the one still to come, is me drawing on Coal’s magic to save my life.

I twist my head, desperately searching out his face. My blood chills when I find it. Coal’s skin is ashen, his eyes a deep purple-blue, haunted with nightmares. I might be on the sand just now, flopping like a dying fish, but Coal—he is in a Mors dungeon, chained and tormented for the qoru’s amusement.

“Stop, Coal,” I scream. A demand this time, not a plea. “Stop. Now. For both our sakes.”

“Make me.” Coal pokes my ribs hard, each jab shooting bolts of pain through my body. “Fight back, mortal. With everything you have.” Coal gasps. “Fight with everything I have.”

The sound of Coal’s strangled gasp shatters something inside me, and like hawks flying through an open window, images invade my mind. A cold, gray room. Restraints. The smell of blood and pain that I know are Coal’s. A heartbeat later, power flows into me, spreading through my body. Waking it.

I twist with all my might, breaking my tormentor’s iron grip. Strength and fury pulse through my veins, dark and corrosive and determined to survive, even if the world cracks for it. I rear back, head-butting the male. Throwing him off me. Air and freedom brush my skin, and I twist about, ready to kill.

I am not ready, however, to find Coal on the ground two paces away, his nose dripping blood to the sand. I’ve . . . thrown Coal. Not just shaken him off, but forced him up and into the air. My magic—Coal’s magic—courses through me as I stalk toward the warrior.

The male brings up his hands, already finding his footing, ready to take whatever I throw at him. There is no smile on his face though. No spark of triumph, which I’m sure I’d feel if I wasn’t so damn furious.

Yes, it worked. Except that the magic burning inside me is still fueled by the nightmares shredding Coal’s soul.

“This was your damn plan?” I shout.

“You needed to echo my magic.” Coal’s words are labored, as if speaking each one is a battle. “Your staying alive is not negotiable. Not a matter of convenience.”

I punch him.

He shifts right and my blow meets nothing but air, his three centuries of combat training making themselves known. Swiping the practice blades off the ground, he tosses one to me. “If you’re still worried about me, mortal,” he pants, “then I’ve not worked you hard enough. As for what I do in my head—”

“Torture,” I say bluntly, throwing the damn practice blade across the ring. “I believe the word you are looking for is torture. And there is no bloody world in which breaking you apart is an acceptable way of granting me access to your magic.” Without waiting for Coal’s answer, I dust myself off and leave the sparring ring.

When I glance back, Coal is on his knees, his lean, muscular body shaking like a newborn kitten’s.