Emberlight

7. If You Can't Shield Yourself From An Icicle, Get The Hell Out Of My Lesson

Feya

They were given a day to adjust to life. A day to learn the building and settle into their dorms, to contact relatives, and try to explain the situation without setting off the Aversion like some twisted party game. A day to get over their ordeal through the art of pool and darts, which they discovered had been rescued from a recent Bloodwitch pub brawl.

"One day to ruin our lives, one day to fix them," Kelsey muttered as she lined up a shot. She potted three stripes in a row before missing entirely. "Your go, golden girl."

Feya took the cue, feeling like a foot stuffed into a glove. The other Embers kept their distance, their eyes skittish, never settling on her long enough for her to make contact—except Odin. He flicked her a grin but sped out of the common room before she could return it, always busy. She had hoped to fit in, but she didn't feel like one of them yet.

She wondered how Odin zoomed around so effortlessly. When she tried to concentrate, to breathe, to bring forth her magic, the only thing she managed to conjure was a curious look from Tristan, or an impatient scowl from Kelsey before realising it was her turn again.

If Bloodwitches were after an easy treat, Feya knew they'd take one look at her and lick their lips.

She potted the white again 'accidentally' to bide her time. Kelsey liked winning, anyway.

#

The following morning, she sought out Martel's training room, pausing at the door as she ran her fingers over the sigil indented into the wood. She wore fresh clothes, courtesy of the fallen; they fit her curves like they were made for her. Someone like her had worn these clothes, entered this door, survived Martel's training, and died all the same. Whatever these sigils meant, she was certain they couldn't protect her, nor the next person to wear these belongless belongings.

She pushed the door, then tried to pull it, before realising some bizarre person had designed it to slide.

As her fingers grazed the handle, the door shot open, revealing an angry Martel. Isadora stood tall behind him, shedding pity from her grimace. Behind her, steel blue walls and a weapon's cabinet chilled the room.

"Late," Martel said, scratching his stubble. "I wouldn't be late again if I were you."

"Sorry." Feya stepped over the threshold into his training quarters. He flicked his wrist and the door snapped shut behind her. So rude! she thought, turning her head to hide her frown.

"That expression you pulled, the one you hoped I didn't catch," he began, his words exposing her like a mirror. He cut her off her apology with a raised hand. "No, it's a good sign. Indifference is what will get you killed, not frustration or passion."

Feya winced. She had never thought so much about death before breakfast.

"I expect you know Isadora Hearth quite well by now, and that she's gifted with element of fire as well as ice," Martel said. "Today, she's not your acquaintance. She's your enemy."

Feya awkwardly hugged her arm as dread curled up inside of her. The girl of fire and ice stood with her shoulders relaxed and head held high, confident in her own strength like a lioness. She looked like a real Ember, strong, controlled, and calculating—everything Feya was not.

"Hearth, I want you firing ice needles. Make them dense enough to hurt. We need to find the on switch with this one." He cleared his throat. "And, Fe-ya," he said, butchering her name.

"Feya," she corrected softly.

"I'll catch on, I'm sure, just as you'll summon your shield. Unless you want to get hit, that is."