Page 47 of Avalon Tower

He nods at the barrier. “Go on.”

I slide off Dickinson. Before me, the shimmering mist swirls, deadly and beautiful, stretching as far as the eye can see in both directions. This wall was woven by a group of powerful veil mages, and I feel the skill of their magic washing over me.

My heart races as I try to summon my magic. In Raphael’s office, I’ve discovered it has a slight warmth to it, like hot honey moving through my chest. I associate it with the color red. Sometimes, I see it in my mind.

But now, nothing is happening. No heating of magic, no silencing of the hum, no burst of red in my thoughts.

Raphael said we needed to be aware of our emotions and how they interact with magic. He thinks I need to suppress my emotions, but I’m not sure that’s what works for me. I think my emotions make it happen.

I glance at the three agents staring at me. Raphael’s expression is inscrutable, but the other two look worried and impatient. Freya is basically grimacing. Of course they’re panicking. They’re putting their lives in the hands of an untrained cadet who didn’t even know Camelot existed a few months ago.

I look again at Raphael’s perfect face and remember how he ghosted me. How he couldn’t wait to get away from me. Isn’t she trash, though? She and her mother.

Anger slides through my blood.

I turn back to the barrier and breathe. Doing the opposite of what Raphael taught me, I focus on my feelings. Even when he saw me in France, Raphael still thought I was just a champagne-swilling shit-show like Mom. Trash.

The veil still hums, stronger than ever.

All those feelings are layers. Thoughts that I disguise as emotions. I need something pure, raw. I peel the thoughts away, searching deeper. What do I feel?

I’m scared of failing—but I’m also scared of succeeding. I want to help fight the Fey. I want to help these people so that there’s actually a point to my life.

Not good enough. The barrier keeps humming. I shut my eyes, searching even deeper, where my emotions are at their most visceral.

There’s a certain constant heat, a pulsing need that I can’t put into words. An anger roiling beneath the surface.

I’m always the one who picks up the pieces. I take care of things when everyone falls apart around me. I live in the shadows, trying to make things go smoothly. And who comes to help me in the night when I’m sick and can’t breathe? When I’m calling for help, and there’s no answer?

The humming goes silent.

I open my eyes. “Now.” My voice is calm and commanding. I walk over to Dickinson, take his reins, and lead him through the silent veil. Seeing me move, the other three follow.

Together, we pass through the pearly mist of the veil, and I let out a long, slow breath. I close my eyes, inwardly thanking the gods. When I open my eyes again, we’re on the other side. Fields spread out around us, and a few abandoned, roofless houses dot the moonlit landscape.

I relax my hold, and the barrier begins to crackle and buzz again behind us. Cold runs through my blood, replacing the magic’s buzz, and ice slides through my bones. I hug myself, shivering, teeth chattering. This always happens after I use my magic.

“Well, that was bloody impressive.” Arzel smiles at me. “Well done, Nia.”

Shivering, I rub my hands together, trying to warm them. The air stings my cheeks. I mount Dickinson again, hoping that some of the horse’s heat will warm my body.

“We have to move.” Freya looks up at the sky. “We need to get to Allevur in a few hours, and we have a long way to go.”

“I’ll be here,” I mutter.

Raphael shakes his head. “No, this location is too exposed.” He points to a grove of trees on a hill. “There. You can take cover between the trees. We’re heading that way. And we’ll be gone several hours, so that will provide some cover if it rains.”

The night wind whips at my hair as we ride toward a gently rolling hill and the grove at the top. In the distance, a darkened village looms in the shadows. Probably abandoned, like so many after the war. But if I remember correctly, there are some people who still live around here.

Just as we’re reaching the base of the hill, Raphael mutters, “Bollocks.”

My heart skips a beat. A group of horsemen gallops out of the grove toward us, wearing the blue cloaks of Fey soldiers.

My first reflex is to turn my horse and ride away as quickly as possible, but that’s exactly the wrong impulse. We are, after all, prepared for exactly this kind of scenario. We’re just a group of Fey on a hunt. In my bag are forged papers declaring that my name is Cyrania Gallowen. As the border patrol nears, I repeat the name in my mind until it becomes a strange jumble of meaningless syllables.

“Good evening,” Raphael calls out in pristine Fey. He looks perfectly relaxed, smiling. “How goes the night?”

“It’s good enough,” the Fey in the lead says gruffly, scrutinizing us. His long ears poke through black hair, and his dark eyebrows are knitted together. Flecks of copper dance in his eyes as he scans us. His uniform is slightly different than the rest—the buttons larger, three golden patches on his shoulder instead of two. The old Nia wouldn’t have even noticed it. But after a few weeks in Avalon Tower, I already know what it means. He is a sergeant, and he’s probably been in King Auberon’s army for decades. Full-blooded Fey live hundreds of years.