Series: Lords of Rathe Series by Meagan Brandy
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“If emotion is the current and intention is the shape,” I say slowly, “what happens if the only thing you intend is to make someone or something stop existing?”
Every head in the room snaps toward me. Fair enough. The question is sort of general, a workaround really for any and all “intents.”
Professor Astra goes very, very still. “We have moved on, Haide. Your codex.”
“Come on,” I coax, a bit mockingly. “We don’t get to learn this for four whole ass years.” I hold her gaze. “Humor me.”
“That,” she says finally, voice softer but no less sharp, “is not a spell you are ready to design.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A muscle jumps in her jaw. Around us, someone hisses under their breath while another mutters, “Of course she’d ask that,” like I’m not three feet away.
Professor Astra steps forward, lowering her tone so it doesn’t carry as far, but I know everyone is straining to hear anyway. “In theory,” she says, “if you only gave the magic the command to unmake…it would look for the most direct path. It would not be quick. Or clean. It would strip away everything that makes a person them before it touched the flesh. It would be—”
“Cruel,” a boy at the front blurts, unable to keep quiet.
“Precise,” Astra corrects, gaze never leaving mine. “But unpredictable. Wild. Because the caster did not bother to define what ‘existing’ means. Body? Memory? Bond?” Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “A spell like that doesn’t care about consent or collateral.” She lets that sink in and then adds, pointedly, “It is the kind of magic that has gotten entire bloodlines erased from Rathe and only one in a million gifted could even attempt to create.”
The room chills.
I hold her stare, something cold and stubborn setting behind my ribs. “So, the problem isn’t the spell,” I say. “It’s the caster being lazy.”
For a heartbeat I think she might actually smile. Then it’s gone. “Class dismissed,” she snaps, breaking whatever strange current spun out between us.
Chairs scrape and the dome overhead clears to pale daylight as everyone begins to file out. They give me a wide berth, like they’re not sure if I might gut them right here and now in front of everyone.
But only a few faces look wise enough to fear me. The rest?
Pissy little fucks I’ll need to watch out for.
Professor Astra calls another student over with a question, but her gaze tracks me as I move toward the door, unreadable. My smirk is full force as I curve out into the hall. I’m going to the Flying Grounds and I dare someone to track me this time. I’ll be fucking ready and they will be dead. Then they can call me a murderer and it will be true. I mean, I am already if you really think about it. But I didn’t earn the title the way they’re accusing.
My good mood evaporates with a groan as soon as I spot someone blocking the exit of the building.
Creed.
He fills the doorway like it was carved to fit him, one hand braced against the stone above his head, the other buried in his pocket. He’s opted for a more casual style today, wearing his training clothes. Everything else is the same. All sharp lines and unbothered violence that is definitely directed at me.
I stop a few feet away, shifting my weight onto one hip. “Oh, mighty big King. To what do I owe this absolute fucking travesty?” I drawl. “Or did you get lost? The self-righteous prick convention is down the hall to the left.”
He doesn’t smirk. His gaze flicks once to the hand I used for the spell, then to my face again. It’s like he knows what no one in that class figured out. “Enjoying your lessons on building prettier ways to kill?”
“I’m a quick study,” I say. And yeah, he knows because it’s all I can think about. Doesn’t have to dig real hard into my mind to see it. “Why, you nervous?”
“I’m never nervous,” Creed replies, and I almost believe him. “I’m…evaluating.” His eyes narrow, something like disdain and grim respect mixing in equal measure. “You keep asking questions like that, brat, and even the ones who don’t already want you dead are going to start wondering if they should.”
“Let them wonder,” I say. “Better than thinking I’m weak.”
He huffs a humorless breath. “You are many things. Weak isn’t one of them. Reckless? Absolutely. Unwanted? Couldn’t make that more obvious if I tried.”
“Is this the part where you threaten me again?”
“Not yet.” He straightens away from the doorframe, stepping just close enough that I have to tip my chin to keep our eyes level. Power hums off him in a quiet, suffocating wave, but I refuse to step back. “This is the part where I remind you that my brother is hanging on by threads I’m barely keeping intact.”