Maybe he's angry, she told herself. Maybe last night tugged the bond, woke him, bothered him. Maybe he saw you on that balcony and thought: what a foolish little witch I'm tied to.
Or worse: Maybe he's finally realizing what everyone else will eventually see—that they bound a pureblood prince to a half-lit candle.
Her grandmother's voice drifted back, unhelpfully warm:
"They will see the size of your magic and think that is all you are. But you have to prove them that you are far more capable then they imagine. "
She swallowed hard. How?
After a moment, she pushed away from the table, appetite gone. She had half an hour to change and get to the training yard.
Thirty minutes to turn herself from a shivering balcony ghost into something that looked remotely like the witch she was supposed to be.
She walked back to her room with her shoulders a little straighter, her heart a little heavier, and the memory of Alistair's piercing, unreadable gaze burning between her shoulder blades.
Morning had sharpened into a pale, hard light by the time Elissa stepped into the south training yard.
Her breath puffed white in the cold. The stone under her boots still held the memory of frost. She'd changed into her training clothes—dark trousers, a thick tunic, boots soft enough to move in, a cloak she'd left unfastened because she knew Dante would make her shed it anyway.
Pureblood vampires weren't bothered by the cold like she was. Another tiny difference. Another reminder.
Dante was already there, of course. He stood in the center of the yard, cloak still, hands clasped behind him. A few rough circles had been chalked onto the packed earth. Vane perched on the low wall, swinging his legs like a bored child who had accidentally been given the strength to break stone. Alistair stood a little apart, near one of the arching pillars, dark against the pale day.
Elissa's heart knocked once, hard, when her eyes brushed over him. He didn't nod. Didn't look away. Just watched.
She walked toward Dante, trying not to let it show on her face.
"Good," Dante said. "You're on time."
"I didn't want to give you another reason to be…creative," she said.
"That's not how my cruelty works," he said. "I don't need reasons."
Vane snorted. "He says that, but really he enjoys them."
"Off the wall," Dante said without looking at him.
Vane hopped down obediently, strolling a little closer, folding his arms.
Dante toed the nearest chalk circle. "Stand here," he told Elissa.
She stepped into it. Up close, with the three of them around her, the fact that she was the only one with a human heartbeat felt even more obvious. They didn't radiate heat like humans. Their presence was…different. Cold, focused, sharp. If she tilted her head just right, she could hear two extra heartbeats in the yard—Dante's and Vane's—slow, steady, unnervingly controlled in their chests where nothing should be beating at all.
Alistair's was too far and too quiet for her to catch, but she knew it was there. The bond made sure she never quite forgot.
"Today is magic," Dante said. "Yours, not ours. We don't have any, not the way you do."
"Lucky you," she muttered.
"Mm," he said. "I'd say the same, but then Hollow exists."
The name made something tighten under her ribs.
Dante went on, businesslike. "We start simple. You say you only have sparks?"
"That's…all I've ever managed without something going wrong," she said. "And sometimes not even that."
"Fine," he said. "Then today you become very good at sparks."
She couldn't help it—her shoulders slumped a little. "Sparks are nothing next to what proper witches can do."
"Proper witches aren't here," Dante said. "You are. So we train what we have."
Vane nodded. "Also, for the record, some of those 'proper witches' in the stories sound ridiculous. Turning rivers to fire, calling storms…impractical. You? You could light all our candles. That's useful."
She gave him a flat look.
"See?" he said. "Already bringing light."
Dante ignored him. "How did they teach you to summon it in the south?"
Elissa hesitated. "Visualize warmth," she said. "A memory. A feeling. Draw it to your fingers and…open the door, I suppose."
"What did you use?" Dante asked.
"The hearth in my grandmother's house," she said before she could stop herself. The image rose unbidden—small stone hearth, iron kettle, the constant, steady glow no matter how bad the world outside became. "Later…anger worked better."
"No anger today," Dante said. "Anger wields you as much as you wield it. Today we want control. Quiet. Your grandmother's hearth will do."
Her chest stung a little at that, but she nodded.
"Hands up," he said.
She held them out in front of her, fingers slightly apart.
"Close your eyes," Dante said.
She obeyed. Behind her lids, darkness pressed close for a moment, threatening to twist into last night's dream. She clenched her teeth and instead forced her mind toward the memory of the hearth. Yellow-orange glow. The soft crackle. Her grandmother humming tunelessly as she stirred something in a pot.
"Breathe in," Dante said quietly. "Slow. Deeper than you think you can. Again. Good. Now, on my word, you call it. Only then."
The cold air made her lungs sting. She tried to ignore the prickling awareness of Alistair somewhere behind her, watching.
"Now," Dante said.
She reached inward, the way she'd been taught—groping along some half-visible path inside herself, trying to hook a fingernail into that thin, reluctant thread of power she knew was there.
Her fingers tingled. A faint warmth rose in her palms.
Nothing happened.
She let out a breath that rattled a little. "Sorry," she muttered automatically.
"Again," Dante said, absolutely unconcerned.
He gave her the word. She tried. And again. And again.
On the fourth try, something finally snapped between her fingers—thin as a hair, bright for less than a heartbeat. A spark, no bigger than what static on wool might give.
Her eyes flew open in surprise, but it was already gone.
Vane raised a hand. "I saw it," he said. "There was definitely a thing. Very spark-shaped."
"Barely," Elissa said. The emptiness between her hands felt like a taunt. "You could miss that if you blinked."
"Then we won't blink," Vane said.
Dante's mouth twitched, the barest ghost of approval. "You did it," he said. "Do it again."
She almost said she couldn't. But her grandmother's voice brushed her mind instead, clear as if the old woman were standing over her shoulder:
You do not need to burn like the sun, child. A candle in the right place keeps the dark from eating a soul.
Maybe. If the candle didn't blow out in its own holder.
She swallowed and lifted her hands again.
"Eyes closed," Dante reminded her.
She obeyed, chasing the hearth image back into her mind. Heat. Home. Safety. Not the cold. Not the dark cracking beneath her feet.
"Now."
She pulled. The spark came quicker this time, a tiny sting of light between thumb and forefinger. It lived for a full heartbeat before it vanished.
"Again," Dante said. "We keep going until you can call it without hesitation."
The repetition blurred.
Close eyes. Breathe. Hearth. Now. Spark. Gone.
Each time, it came a little more easily. Sometimes it fizzled before it formed. Sometimes it flared just bright enough to reflect faintly on her skin. Once she felt it stutter and snap in her fingertips, more a sensation than a sight.
Sweat started to bead at her temples despite the cold. Her hands ached from holding so still.
She lost count of how many times they tried.
And through it all, she could feel Alistair's gaze like a second kind of cold on the back of her neck.
He didn't speak. Didn't move closer. Didn't offer a word of encouragement or criticism. Just watched, with that same silent, piercing attention that made her feel like he was measuring her and finding her wanting.
Stop thinking about him, she scolded herself. Focus on not failing visibly.
"Enough," Dante said at last.
Her arms dropped, fingers trembling. The world sharpened again when she opened her eyes fully—the yard, the chalk, the pale sky.
"You're shaking," Dante observed.
"I'm fine," she lied.
"You're tired," he said. "Magic costs. Especially when you fight it every step."
"I wasn't—"
He raised one eyebrow.
She shut her mouth.