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“He’s all yours to steal.”

“You hear that, Elian? Thicket said you have to accompany me on my travels. Queen’s orders.”

“Did she now?”

Thicket turned, following Bern’s over-enthusiastic wave and the sound of Elian’s amused reply.

“About time, Delmore,” Marcellus said.

“Sorry. I took a few wrong turns.” Elian’s outfit was simpler than usual. A fitted tunic tucked into navy trousers and a pair of worn boots. The casual attire somehow made him even more endearing.

“You changed, too?” Elian asked, taking in her own outfit.

Thicket glanced down at her hemmed tunic and pants. “I may have gotten used to wearing dresses, but I would rather not fight in one,” she said sheepishly. “Not very princess-like of me, I know.”

“You are still very princess-like. I always thought those clothes looked really good on you.”

“Of course they do,” Marcellus said. “They’re mine.”

Thicket’s cheeks erupted right along with her indignation. Across the beach, she felt Bern’s stunned gaze.

“What is wrong with you?” she demanded. Marcellus shrugged, turning away and leaving her with the mess he had created. What had gotten into him?

Huffing, she turned her attention to Elian. “Don’t listen to him. Lotta just hemmed some of his old clothes to fit me since all I had were dresses, being short on time and all.”

Elian smiled, but it looked strained. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Thicket.”

She clapped, hoping to dispel the tension. “Training! What should I do?”

“In a real fight, you will go until either you or your opponent surrenders, either willingly—or by force,” Marcellus said. “To imitate such conditions, the two of you will spar until one person is rendered incapacitated, either by being physically restrained or by losing the ability or will to continue.” He swept his gaze between Elian and Thicket. “Do I need to repeat anything?”

They shook their heads.

“Good. Then take your positions.”

Thicket and Elian crossed to opposite sides, leaving at least a few dozen feet in front of one another. Upon instinct, Thicket adopted her sword fighting stance, legs spread apart evenly, knees slightly bent, the tips of her boots digging into the sand. Elian still looked relaxed, his feet a tad bit close together and his hands resting neutrally at his sides.

A bout of hesitation had her fingers curling inward, unsure of how to start or of what incantations to use. She knew Elian’s fire had a tinge of purple, but it was still nowhere near as powerful as Lavender’s. As hers. She had to be careful not to overdo it.

Bern and Marcellus waited a safe distance away. The former gave her a thumbs up and mouthed, You got this! Marcellus’ keen eyes were as unreadable as ever, yet she thought she detected a hint of stiffness to his posture.

Thicket glanced over at Elian. She expected him to flash her a reassuring look. To tell her to just do her best.

But for once, Elian wasn’t smiling.

“Start!” Marcellus said.

“Yoa!”

A shadow passed over Thicket. A gigantic wave arched above her head, seconds away from crashing into her.

Thicket’s heart slammed against her chest. She barely had time to think—to react. She shouted the one incantation that came to mind, “Fya!”

A net of fire surged up to meet the wave. Steam flooded the sky. Thicket shielded her face as the water boiled, hissing and spitting until nothing but billowing steam remained. White flecks rained down, colliding with her fire. It exploded upon contact. When the light cleared, her fire was no longer blue but a yellowish-orange.

Her jaw dropped. Had he… diluted her magic?

No. The white flecks—it was salt. Salt had changed the color, just as Lavender had done during the Pyre.