A Trial of Sorcerers: Book One by Kova, Elise (universal ebook reader .txt) 📕

Eira sighed softly and worked to get her magic under control. The ice slowly vanished into steam. Cullen’s hands fell from her face. The radius around them was a wet mess from frost and wind.

“Mother above, you really are a handful,” he muttered.

“I know,” she whispered.

“It’s no wonder Marcus is always worrying about you.”

She winced. “I know.”

“You’re too powerful for your own good.”

“I know.”

Cullen’s hands returned to her face. He grabbed both of her cheeks and brought her face toward his with force.

“What?” Eira snapped.

“Just making sure it really is you. Because, more than any of those things, the Eira I’ve known is stubborn, determined, and not afraid to talk back or put someone in their place. You’re little more than a wet rag right now.”

“Leave me be.” She glanced aside. His breath was too warm on her cheeks. He was running the risk of making her feel again. And if she could feel, the tears would start once more. The whole cycle would rack her body anew.

“No. Marcus told me to check on you so I am. You took the run hard and he’s worried. I’m not going back empty-handed.”

“Where is he?” Eira dared to ask.

“With Fritz, I presume. He was coming to see you himself, but the minister intercepted us on our way.”

Eira laughed softly. If he was with Fritz, then Reona and Herron would soon follow. Marcus would find out the truth of their relationship, no doubt much to his relief. Her mission to make sure he felt like he never had to take care of her again because of her performance in the trials had succeeded spectacularly. Just not in the way she expected.

All because of a stupid trident she hadn’t even intended to make. It was those journals’ fault. A shudder ripped through her.

Who wrote those journals?

“You can go. He won’t care soon,” Eira murmured.

“What?”

“Marcus won’t care what happens to me soon.”

“Stop,” Cullen said firmly, bringing her attention back to him with a gentle tug of his hands. They were still on her face. Why was he still holding onto her? Didn’t he realize he was holding bad luck incarnate? “I’m not letting you speak ill of yourself or Marcus. He loves you more than anything. And you, you’re…” Cullen trailed off, his loss for words more telling than anything that might have followed.

“You’re jealous,” she whispered. Cullen’s eyes widened. “Do you love my brother?”

“No,” he snarled. “I’m jealous that you two have each other. That you have family who look out for one another rather than just seeing the branches of the family tree as potential kindling for the fires of ambition.” He released her in disgust and stood.

“They don’t really love me,” she whispered when his back was to her. Cullen spun, but Eira spoke before she could. “My family is a lie. They can’t really love me because I’m not one of them; I’ve never been.” Eira shook her head slowly, the tears falling in earnest. “My parents…they’re not the same as Marcus’s parents. They’ve never been. And they kept it from me.”

“What are you saying?” he whispered.

“I was abandoned. Left to die. And Marcus’s parents took me in because they were afraid of who my mother might be.” Eira buried her face in her hands and curled into a ball once more.

But before the ice could consume her, Cullen’s arms were around her, and suddenly her frozen world was filled with his agonizing warmth.

15

“I—”

“Shh,” he whispered in her ear. Cullen pressed her face into his shoulder, as if shielding her from everything that might seek to harm her. “Just cry.”

“But—”

“Stop. Let it out.”

That was all the permission she needed. Eira pressed her face into his shoulder and sobbed. Cullen’s velvet-covered muscle muffled her cries. When she tried to pull away, he yanked her close once more, and the crying continued.

Eira had never shed so many tears in her life. It was as though she was trying to drown the world in her agony. She didn’t even know a person could cry so much. Perhaps it was just her magic manifesting her pain in a new way. If it couldn’t be ice, then it would be a never-ending river of tears.

After what could’ve been minutes or hours, Eira straightened. This time, Cullen didn’t pull her back. Somehow, he’d sensed she’d reached her limit.

Eira rubbed her face, sniffling. Cullen stood and crossed the room silently. He was no doubt ashamed for comforting someone like her. He was putting as much distance between her and him as possible. He would leave.

She concocted a number of terrible, self-deprecating fantasies as Cullen rummaged through the desk, not caring for whose it may be. He returned with a small kerchief and knelt once more before her, presenting his humble offering.

“Thank you,” Eira murmured, blowing her nose.

“Of course.” The way he said those words, he seemed to know she meant more than just the kerchief. “I’m…sorry.” Eira let out a bitter laugh. A noise that elicited a look of confusion from him.

“The Prince of the Tower, always so self-assured. I’ve never seen you look so…”

“Hopeless?” He ran a hand through his hair. “If you ever got to know me, you’d find out I can be incredibly hopeless.” Cullen sat and pulled his own knees to his chest, loosely situating them in his elbows. When he spoke, he didn’t look at her. “And that nickname, can you not call me that?”

“Prince of the Tower?”

“Yes. I hate it.”

“Why?”

Cullen turned to her with weary eyes. It was as though she was finally seeing through that perfect image he always exuded to something real. There was raw hurt and fierce determination smoldering within him. His clothing was disheveled. He was finally imperfect, messy, and everything that Eira knew her peers in the Tower would find unbecoming because they ruined the illusion of their perfect lord that had been lifted from the squalor they all lived in.

Yet, it was the first