Page 58 of Embers of Ruin

“As you so confidently pointed out, the garden is dead. Your magic remains ineffective there.”

“How rude of it.”

Ignoring me, Mazelle walks past the hearth to my armoire and pulls out a neatly folded bundle of black leathers. She sets them on the bed before turning to face me.

“What is this?” I ask, staring at the black leathers before looking back at Mazelle.

“Training attire.” One dark brow arches. “Is your eyesight failing as well?”

My suspicion rises immediately. “I don’t usually wear this type of training attire.”

“You have clothing suitable for the gardens. Today is different.”

My ears perk up immediately. Different is not a comforting word in this palace. Different usually means inconvenient, painful… or both.

Mazelle’s expression remains as unreadable as ever, which does absolutely nothing to reassure me.

“What kind of training?”

“Physical. Can you stop your line of questioning?”

I stare at her. Look at the clothes. Look back at her.

“...Are you feeling well?” Her eyebrows crease with concern as she steps closer to examine me.

“No, in fact I think I’m coming down with a terrible illness. Very sudden. Possibly fatal.”

Her brow lifts. “Really? How inconvenient. Heal yourself.”

“Do people here not understand when someone is clearly implying no?”

“For you, no. You do realize that refusing is not an option?”

“It’s always an option, Mazelle. Rarely a successful one, but still.”

Mazelle folds her hands neatly in front of her. “Your body must be strong enough to preserve your mind. Magic does not only draw from power; it draws from endurance, pain, fear, and discipline. If your body fails, your mind follows. If your mind breaks, your magic will not ask permission before it destroys everything within reach.”

For once, I have no immediate response, because she is right. I hate that. She seems to know it too.

Her gaze sharpens, almost satisfied. “You think your magic is separate from you because you have spent your life hiding it. That is not control. That is avoidance.”

My jaw tightens. “Did Thorin tell you to say that?”

“No,” she says. “I have eyes, and I use them.”

I dislike that answer because, annoyingly, it's a fair assessment.

Mazelle turns toward the door. “You know how much time you have. I’ll see you shortly.”

Then she leaves.

* * *

I stand there for a long moment, staring at the training clothes and trying very hard not to feel unsettled. Physical training I understand in theory. I know how to run. I know how to fight dirty when cornered. I know how to use a dagger well enough to surprise arrogant men who assume my size makes me harmless. I have survived Elvora, the woods, hunger, and Onyx’s personality. Surely I can survive Mazelle.

Probably. Maybe. She is the Lieutenant of the king’s guard. Gods, I might be in trouble.

The clothes fit surprisingly well, molding to my figure without feeling restrictive. The trousers hug my legs comfortably, the fitted tunic laces neatly at my waist, and the leather boots are so soft I can't help but wonder how I spent twenty-one years walking around in ragged ones. I gather my curls into a loose braid, but stubborn silver strands escape before I even finish tying it off.