By the time he reached the last obstacle, sweat dripped down his temples, and his chest was rising and falling in erratic, rapid bursts. Wind’s ears were twitching in agitation, Rex was flying faster, and the dog’s tail was tucked between his legs.
Veronyka hesitated. Tristan was projecting his thoughts; she’d only have to open a crack in her defenses, and she’d know exactly what was bothering him.
“Are you okay?” she asked instead, clamping down on the urge to use her shadow magic, no matter how innocent her intentions. If he wanted to tell her his problem, he would.
He was frozen at the end of the course, as if waiting for Rex’s descent—only the phoenix was still circling above, making no move to dive or ignite.
“Tristan,” she said, coming to stand next to him. He was staring straight forward, his jaw clenched. Apparently he hadn’t heard her the first time. “Hey—are you okay?”
He started, twisting in the saddle, and they locked gazes.
One way to strengthen a magical connection was to make eye contact, and Veronyka hadn’t been prepared to defend against it. In one blinding flash of insight, she understood. She looked away, severing the momentary link.
Tristan was afraid of fire.
It was so surprising, she hardly believed it, and yet it explained why the course had gone so badly for him that first day—and only at the end, when Rex ignited. And now that she thought about it, she remembered sensing a surge of fear from his direction when Maximian burst into flame. Surely it wasn’t impossible for a Phoenix Rider to be afraid of fire, especially when they weren’t bonding as young children, like they had in the old days.
“Let’s just call it quits for now,” Veronyka offered, unnerved by his wide-eyed, tense silence. “It’s been a long day.”
Wordlessly she called Tristan’s other animals—the hound and the pigeon—and packed up the supplies, trying to cover the silence.
“I . . . ,” Tristan began, still seated on Wind in the same place he had been before. His head drooped shamefully. “I can’t do it.”
“You’re tired,” Veronyka said, forcing nonchalance into her voice. “Next time . . .”
“No—you don’t understand,” he said, and when he lifted his head, moisture glistened on his bottom eyelids. He stared at the sky, at Rex still soaring above, and choked out a strangled laugh. “I’m a Phoenix Rider who’s afraid of fire.”
When he’d collected himself enough to look back down at her, his expression was wary, as if he expected her to laugh or belittle him.
Instead she came to a stop next to him, patting Wind’s neck, and shrugged.
“Bellonya the Brave lost her dominant arm as a child and had to relearn her fighting skills with her other hand. She became the fiercest spear thrower in history. King Worrid was deaf, so he designed a special saddle to allow him to fly without losing his balance. He also set up the Morian Archives, making sure the empire’s histories were recorded by the priests and acolytes of Mori and not just passed on verbally.”
Tristan frowned at her. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that you have a condition, and now you have to deal with it,” she said, realizing with chagrin that her gender was her own “condition” to overcome.
“I can’t just deal with it. I’m a Phoenix Rider—fire comes with the territory. It’s not like I can coat myself in pyraflora resin and carry on with my day.”
He dismounted in a huff, and Veronyka actually smiled at the mental picture of him covered head to toe in sticky fireproof sap. She tried to fight it back, but luckily, when he caught sight of her over his shoulder, he smiled too.
A moment later, he sighed. “This is serious, Nyk.”
“I know it is,” she said. “But maybe you’re thinking about it the wrong way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the problem isn’t out here.” She gestured to the world around them. She hesitated, then took a step toward him. “It’s in here,” she said softly, tapping his temple, his hair dark and curled with sweat. The touch sent a lightning bolt of awareness through her, and her entire body lit up as if her nerves were on fire. She’d never touched him before and was shocked at how intimate it felt—her fingers against his warm skin, their faces mere inches apart. . . .
She yanked her hand back, and he watched her sudden movement with wide eyes.
“I could try swallowing pyraflora sap instead?” he asked, his voice slightly breathless.
Veronyka forced a smile, avoiding his gaze and trying to shake the tingling feeling that was still crackling through her body. She was conscious of him now in a way she hadn’t been before, how the breaths moved in and out of his chest and the way the sweat from his skin left her fingertip damp. She rubbed her hand against her leg and stepped back from him, trying to focus on their conversation.
“I have this thing I do when I don’t want to think about something,” she said as memories of Xephyra flickered before her eyes. “It’s a way of keeping bad thoughts and feelings locked up inside my mind. Maybe you could do the same thing but put your fear there instead.”
“Locked up?” he asked, frowning.
“Yeah. I call it my mental safe house,” she said, explaining the method she’d used to bury her grief for Xephyra and to pass her interrogation with Morra. She steered clear of mentioning shadow magic and just focused on how she visualized her stone wall, how she put whatever she didn’t want to think about inside and carefully stacked protective stones all around it. “I know it’s sort of silly,” she said as they moved to pack the rest of the supplies, “but it works for me. This way, whatever you don’t want to think about isn’t running rampant in your mind—it’s trapped, cut off from everything, even yourself.”
Tristan was nodding thoughtfully. She’d thought he’d scoff at the idea, but it seemed he was willing to try anything.
“It makes sense,” he said. “I mean, we do it subconsciously all the time, don’t we? Hiding from stuff we don’t want to face or think about. But doing it on purpose . . .”
Veronyka nodded. “I hope it helps.”
“Thanks,” he said, expression earnest. “I . . . No one else knows,” he blurted.
Veronyka gaped for a moment, taken aback—but pleased—that he’d trusted her. She tried not to let her surprise show and smiled reassuringly. “And they won’t.”
Some tension released in his shoulders, and he smiled back. “Where did you learn all that?” he asked, waving back to where they’d been standing when she’d described her mental safe house.
“I sort of came up with it on my own, I guess.” She thought of Val, constantly berating her for projecting her emotions, and supposed her sister deserved some of the credit—or blame.
It had been strange without her, these past weeks. Veronyka was capable of taking care of herself—she’d known that all along—but it had meant something to prove it to herself. To prove it to Val . . . even though her sister wasn’t here to see it.
“I had some trouble with magical control,” she continued, “so, locking away certain feelings and emotions helped me find balance.”