The ease at which one can climb rafters is definitely one of them.

Before the Turning, I don’t think I would have had the lower body strength, much less the grip strength, to climb up here. And that’s not even considering the agility required to do it quietly in the presence of Abra, whose fae hearing requires my utter silence. But with my heightened senses, I manage it. Every twitch of my musculature is precise, every movement of the rafters underneath my weight measured. My body readjusts instinctively.

The problem will be signaling to Piper that I’m here without startling her and alerting the queen.

I reach the topmost rafter, still on the other side of the building from where Piper is tied, and wait in the shadows for Abra to turn her attention away. She’s still staring into the vat, talking to herself now that Piper has stopped bothering to answer, but she’s still facing our direction, and I don’t want any signal I offer to Piper to get Abra’s attention as well.

My heart pounds as I pray to the Fates that she’ll somehow turn around. That she’ll leave the room, rendering the backup plan Nox and I came up with unneeded.

The prayer is answered with a resounding “no,” when, instead of waiting as we planned, Nox flings himself from the shadows, teeth bared for Abra’s throat.

CHAPTER 60

EVANDER

Training with Orion is less pleasant than I expected.

And I came in with low expectations.

Abysmal expectations, really.

Well, except for the occasions Ellie joins us. When she found out I was training, she wanted to do the same. Not with magic, but with a weapon—specifically a short sword. Peck grumbled about it, but after a few weeks of rest and a cocktail of Peck’s postpartum potions, he cleared her for physical activity. Hilva, a female who retired from my father’s army decades ago, now trains her in the atrium with us.

There’s been more than one occasion where I’ve gotten smacked over the head with a rather inconsiderate vine for letting my eyes wander over to her as she trains.

What can I say?

Ellie looks hot in leathers. Especially when she’s wielding a sword.

Ellie isn’t training with us today, which brings me back around to my point about expectations.

First off, there’s something about people who are naturally good at magic—well, good at anything—that forces them to be insufferable.

I know this well from being around Olwen, who, from the time she was eight and discovered she was better at magic than anyone else, became impossible to be around. At least without wanting to claw your ears out to escape the condescending remarks—the “look, but it’s so easy,” before a simple flourish of the wrist and producing a functional pianoforte made exclusively of rose petals.

Orion is much the same way, though he at least attempts to be polite.

Not that he succeeds.

You see, the thing about prodigies is that because they never had to work at it, they don’t understand why you have to work at it.

That, and they either expect way too much, or way too little of you.

If I were training with Olwen, she would expect way too little, assuming me an imbecile.

Unfortunately, I’m training with Orion, who expects way too much. Meaning I’ve gotten about four dozen thorn lashes to the torso from surprise attacks I can’t parry.

Ow, I think in my head, Orion at least having successfully trained me not to mutter it aloud, as the consequence of a verbal slip is an additional lash.

“You’re not trying,” says Orion, sending yet another thorny vine my way. This one I block with my forearms as it hurtles toward my face; I know better than to think I can stop it with my magic.

My torso, Orion can beat all he wants, but I’m quite partial to my face.

Blood trickles down my skin as the thorns dig into my forearm, the vine wrapping around my wrist and yanking me to the ground, where I end up with a mouthful of earth.

“Get up,” Orion says, sounding like he couldn’t care less whether I do so or not.

I do anyway, shrugging away Orion’s vine, which must have gotten bored with me given the way it’s now scouring the soft earth for bugs.

When Orion first suggested the atrium as a place to meet for our training, I thought it made sense for teaching someone as unskilled as myself. The atrium is practically overgrown with wildlife, meaning I’ll be able to practice controlling plants before we bother with sprouting them—a much more advanced task.

Still, I didn’t take into consideration how public the atrium is.

Passersby frequent the area, mostly nobles waltzing around on dates, the females dangling off their arms blushing and giggling as they realize they’ve happened upon the Heir to Dwellen. It never takes long for their giggles to sour to snorts of derision once they’ve watched me unsuccessfully defend myself from something as emasculating as a rosebush.

Indeed, a couple passing by are staring at their feet, hands covering their mouths as they try to stifle their laughter at having seen me yanked to the ground by a spindly little vine.

“Of course, I’m trying. What do you think we’ve been out here doing since the dawn of civilization?” I ask.

Orion crosses his arms. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“Well, you’ve had me out here since before sunrise. You are aware that the fae are not nocturnal beings, are you not? The sun is rather helpful in completing most tasks.”

Orion allows a wry smile to taint his features. “I would have thought you preferred practicing in the darkness, Your Highness. Less opportunity for your citizens to gawk.”

He nods his head toward the couple, no longer pretending not to be watching. They both blush, then go back to examining the lilies.

“It’s true. I imagine I could focus better away from prying eyes.”

Orion shakes his head. “I chose this spot for a reason. Why didn’t you put any effort into honing your magic at the Academy?”

I shoot him a raised eyebrow. “Because I was a youth who spent more effort chasing females than caring about my marks.”

Orion shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s it.”

“Then pray tell, why do you think I didn’t try?”

“I think you’re the second son. The backup. The heir your father didn’t need. I think you saw your brother being groomed for the throne, and you—”

“Yes, yes,” I say, interrupting my mentor. “I didn’t see a need for enhancing my skills when all I was going to be was a powerless, spoiled brat, anyway.” I yawn; Orion’s assessment of me is so predictable.

“That’s not what I was going to say. I think you were so openly criticized by your father for everything you did, you learned not to attempt the things that didn’t come naturally to you. I think you learned that having your father call you lazy hurt significantly less than having him call you incompetent.”

Orion goes quiet, eyeing me with curiosity, as if to watch and see whether his blow has landed.

Anger boils in my chest, seeping into my bloodstream, causing my heart to pound. It has me longing to wipe Orion’s smug look off his face. Not that I have the power to get near him, which I suppose is the point.

Incompetent. That’s what I am, what I’ve always been.