IRIS’ P.O.V.
By mid-morning, I had bled three times — nose, knuckles, and ego.
I hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t slept. And I sure as hell hadn’t managed to summon Illyra.
The stones around the training circle were scorched black with failed attempts. Magic clung to them like smoke, restless and angry. Kind of like me.
I was sitting cross-legged now, dirt pressed into my skin, fingers trembling, dried blood caked under my nose like some deranged war paint. My hair clung to my neck with sweat, and I was starting to seriously consider biting something. Or someone.
Probably Kayden.
“Do you want a death wish?” Clara asked from a safe distance, perched on a rock like some wise mountain owl who drank way too much tea.
“No,” I muttered, “but I might have one by the time I’m done here.”
She raised an
