Total pages in book: 214
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
Normal water affinities push the water from within themselves.
For me, it's the opposite. I extend my awareness outward, drawing from sources beyond myself. Moisture in the air, gusts of wind, the stored potential in the stone beneath my feet, and the bits of heat in human bodies or torches all work. Except I only ever channel water when others are watching for obvious reasons. My biggest advantage is versatility, but while I’m posing as a water affinity, I’m forced to stick to only water.
In other words, everybody else in this room has a reservoir of power the size of a lake and I’m drawing from something more like a bathtub. But the limitations have made me more precise. More strategic. The others waste power while I make use of every drop of essence I can grab.
We circle each other as Ambrose and Mireen back away to give us room. Beck moves first, sending a wave of water rushing toward me like a battering ram. I sidestep, using a pulse of energy from my palm to disperse it. The water falls to the ground in harmless drops.
Drawing more moisture from the air, I form three spinning discs of water and launch them in quick succession. Beck blocks the first two with his shield, but the third catches him in the shoulder, knocking him back and sending him twisting through the air like a ragdoll.
Uther slips under him, cushioning his fall with his watery back.
"Not bad," Beck admits, sliding off Uther with a grateful pat on the beast's head. He shakes water from his sandy blonde hair.
I'm about to respond when I feel a familiar prickle at the back of my neck. I turn slightly, just enough to confirm my suspicion.
Raith stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. Even from across the room, I can feel the heat of his attention on me as he tracks my movements. His affinity mark has grown more than anyone in the first years. Lines of red-orange trail up his thick forearms and reach the bottom of his left bicep in a way that’s admittedly… nice.
Our eyes meet briefly, and a ghost of a smile touches his lips before his expression returns to its usual stoic mask. It's been like this for weeks now—him appearing at the edges of wherever I am, watching, assessing. Keeping his promise to protect me, but maintaining a careful distance in public.
The private training sessions are different. Twice a week, we meet in an abandoned training room in the eastern wing. There, he's been teaching me how to use my size and speed to my advantage, how to fight opponents twice my strength, how to survive. His hands adjust my stance, his voice low and rough as he corrects my form, his body close enough that I can feel his unnatural heat.
But it's always professional. Always clinical. There's never idle conversation, and as far as I can tell, his one and only purpose is to make sure I can defend myself better.
I force my attention back to Beck just in time to dodge a water whip aimed at my legs. “Too busy drooling to defend, huh?”
"Shut up," I say, glaring as I pull my attention from Raith.
My momentary distraction costs me. Beck's next attack catches me in the chest, drenching me from neck to waist.
We're all able to put force behind our attacks, but being a water carries the advantage of letting us practice with relatively harmless spells when we want. In a real fight, Ryke has been teaching us how to sharpen each droplet of water, turning an otherwise harmless splash into a deadly blade that can cleave through flesh and bone.
But Beck's attack is nothing more than cold water splashing and soaking me as it connects.
I pull the water from my clothing. Droplets magically wick from the fabric, my skin, and my hair, drifting in front of my body in a wall of droplets. With a thought, I reach into each droplet and reshape them into inch-long needles.
"Hey now, that's—" Beck starts, but I gesture, and the needles fly toward him.
They form an outline, punching pinprick holes in the loose points of his clothing but not even scratching him. He looks behind and sees the needles stuck in the stone wall, then looks down at his clothes and pulls his sleeve out. Dozens of little holes let the light through.
"Gods, Nessa," Beck says, grinning. "You're scary as hell."
As I release the water needles, letting them splash to the ground, I feel another presence behind me. Not Raith this time.
"Impressive control, Thorne," Primal Ryke says, his voice cool but not unkind. "For someone who could barely form a sphere two months ago, your progress is... noteworthy."
Coming from Ryke, this is practically effusive praise. I duck my head, unused to compliments from instructors. "Thank you."