Page 8 of Tempest Blazing
"Enough." The word cracked like a whip. I stepped between them, my own magic rising to meet theirs—not to fight, but tocommand. "Both of you, stop. Now."
The authority in my voice surprised me. It wasn't just anger—it was something deeper, something that came from the bond with Thalon, from the Library's recognition, from whatever power had been awakening inside me since I'd first set foot in this place.
Both men went still.
"I called you here," I said, looking directly at Mason, "because I need allies, not rivals." Then I turned to Ciaran. "And you—I don't know what game you're playing, but if you can't put your pride aside, you can leave. I won't be the prize in your fight."
Silence. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.
Mason's jaw was tight, his dark eyes still fixed on Ciaran with obvious distrust. But after a long moment, he nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry." His gaze flicked to me. "But I still don't trust him."
Ciaran's smirk was infuriating and somehow endearing at the same time. "Smart man." He inclined his head toward me with mock formality. "I'll stay,a rúnsearc. On your terms."
The Gaelic endearment sent warmth spiraling through my chest, but I shoved the feeling aside. There would be time to unpack whatever was happening between us later. Right now, I had bigger concerns.
"Good." I sank back into my chair, suddenly exhausted. "Because we're going to need all the help we can get."
Looking between these two powerful, dangerous men who had somehow chosen to follow me, I felt something shift. The wordleadersettled over me like armor I wasn't sure I was ready to wear.
But maybe that didn't matter anymore.
I caught Ciaran watching me with those unsettling silver eyes. Hunger, yes, but also something that looked like reverence. It made my breath catch.
Annoyance warred with a flutter of something dangerous. I couldn't afford to be distracted.
"What?" I asked.
His smile was soft and devastating. "Nothing,a rúnsearc. Just... you're magnificent when you take command." He leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Speaking of which—would you allow me to conduct my own research into the parchment? I have... resources that might prove useful."
I studied his face, weighing the request. The parchment was dangerous in the wrong hands, but Ciaran was hardlydefenseless. If anyone could keep it safe while unlocking its secrets, it would be him.
"All right." I reached into my jacket and withdrew the ancient document, its edges worn but the symbols still eerily clear. "But I want regular updates. And if you discover anything—anything at all—I need to know immediately."
His fingers brushed mine as he took the parchment, sending an unwelcome jolt of electricity up my arm. "You have my word."
???
The training yard was a graveyard of shadows by the time I found Kane.
Dusk had settled over the Guild like a weight pressing down, turning the practice posts into dark sentinels and the weapon racks into skeletal fingers reaching toward the dying light. The only sound was the rhythmicthunkof steel biting wood—sharp, angry, relentless.
Kane stood with his back to me, driving his blade into a practice post with surgical precision. Barely controlled fury. Each strike landed exactly where he intended, the wood splintering under the assault. His white hair caught the last traces of daylight, making him look carved from ice and rage.
I hesitated at the edge of the yard. Part of me wanted to turn around, to leave him to whatever demons he was fighting. But Mason's words echoed in my mind:Kane's brilliant. Dangerous, maybe, but brilliant. If you're building something, you need him.
So I crossed the distance, my boots crunching on the gravel. Should have been enough to announce my presence. Kane didn't so much as pause in his assault on the defenseless post.
"Kane," I said when I was close enough that he couldn't pretend not to hear me.
The blade stilled mid-swing. For a moment, he held the position—muscles coiled, weapon raised—frozen in the moment before violence. Then he lowered the sword with deliberate control and turned to face me.
His blue-violet eyes were cold as winter sky. "What do you want, Tess?"
The dismissal hit like a slap. No greeting, no acknowledgment of everything we'd been through together. Just that flat, cutting question that made it clear I was interrupting something he considered far more important than whatever I might have to say.
I lifted my chin, refusing to let him see how his coldness stung. "I wanted to talk to you."
"About?" He turned back to the post, raising his blade again. The message was clear: whatever you have to say, say it quickly.
