“Of course it is.” He ran a hand through his hair, and Vhalla watched it cascade back into place around his fingers.

“Why?” She felt like she was missing something obvious.

“I made it.” His eyes caught hers, and Vhalla couldn’t find words between her surprise and the look he was giving her.

“Why?” Vhalla repeated again, remembering Larel telling her once about how Firebearers were jewelers or smiths due to their ability to manage flames.

“Why? Why do I make my own armor, my parrot?” Aldrik had to know that her inquiry was more than him making his armor. “Because I do not trust other craftsmen with something as important as my life.”

There was a hidden meaning between his words, and Vhalla felt overwhelmed trying to understand its layers. Aldrik spared her from the task when he shrugged off the last of his armor—and her mind went blank. He was in a loose-fitting, long-sleeved white shirt that hung mostly open at his neck. On his lower half were a pair of well-tailored black pants that clung close to his legs. It was more casual and undressed than she’d ever seen him before, and just the sight brought a bright blush to her cheeks.

If the prince noticed her modesty, he was good enough not to comment. Aldrik sat on one of the pillows near the low table. A paper caught his eye, eliciting a small sigh.

“What is it?” she asked, still hovering.

“Oh, nothing. Just some things I need to go over with Father.” He glanced back at her. “If you would like to get more comfortable,” he offered with a gesture toward a seat. His gaze shifted back to the paper, and he pinched the bridge of his nose in thought.

Vhalla fidgeted with her fingers. It was armor; she’d normally worn less around him. But something about undressing anything, here in his tent, made her heart race. With a deep breath Vhalla reminded herself to be an adult and stop acting like an excitable girl. In the end she compromised by pulling off her boots and gloves as well as her scale, but left on her chainmail.

She sat on the pillow opposite him and crossed her legs. The pillows were comfortable, as equally fine as the rug, with tightly woven threads that seemed to be some kind of silk.

“Oh sorry.” Vhalla put down the spare cushion with a nervous laugh when she felt his stare.

“What is it?” Aldrik asked, returning the paper to the stack.

“They’re very nice,” she said truthfully.

“You think so?” He seemed surprised, as if he was considering them for the first time.

“Well, for me they are.” She smiled faintly. He forgot so easily they came from different worlds.

“In any case,” he ceased his own inspection. “Channeling. It is much like Larel explained: you will tap into the source of your power, which should be easy for you, given your Affinity.”

“How do I go about it?”

“Well, in a way that depends on you. I will help you understand the fundamentals of it, but ultimately it is your connection with yourself and the world.” It was a cryptic explanation, and Vhalla felt her chance of success diminishing to hopelessness. “Most sorcerers have a trigger that opens and closes their Channel. This is normally physical. Many find it easier to tie it to a tangible act.”

“What’s yours?” she asked.

“The major told me you are capable of magical sight?” Vhalla nodded, that much she could hang her hat on. “Very well—watch.” Aldrik held out his hands before her, palms open. Vhalla adjusted her vision and saw him bathed in the familiar golden flame. He clenched his hands into fists and suddenly the glow was extinguished across his body.

“Are you all right?” she gasped, looking at his now-dim form.

He chuckled and nodded. “I closed my Channel. Keep watching.” He relaxed and unfurled his fingers. Aldrik snapped them closed into fists again and the white and gold flames returned.

“It’s magnificent,” she breathed. The complement earned her a faint smile. Vhalla looked down from his face and paused. “Aldrik ...” She murmured as her eyes focused on a dark spot. She’d seen it before in the garden, before she even knew about magical sight. Vhalla reached out a hand to touch him, stopping herself short. She shouldn’t be so forward; he was still the crown prince.

Aldrik knew what she saw. “The poison crystalized, rooting itself enough that I could not remove it. It was the best I could do.”

“It’s not letting your Channel work properly, is it?” Vhalla frowned, suddenly realizing what that dark spot meant.

“Exactly ...” His voice began to grow heavy. “That is why I could not protect you as I should have that night.” Aldrik paused. “Vhalla, it’s my fault.”

“What is?” Apprehension trailed its icy fingers up her spine.

He took her still hovering hand in both of his. “You should not have had to kill them. If I had been more capable, you would not have been forced to.” Emotion burned behind his eyes and it struck her clear as day. Channeling was a side-project for him. The main goal was the Night of Fire and Wind. He was playing the puppet master again, and Larel was certainly helping.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Teach me Channeling or we’re done.” She wrenched her hand from his.

“I was fourteen,” he began, ignoring her. Her mouth was still twisted in annoyance. “The first time I killed a man.”

Her face relaxed.

“Looking back, I didn’t even have a good reason to kill him.”

Vhalla shifted closer to hear, his voice faint and his eyes glossy. He seemed to stare through the world around him.

“I was told that he was a bad man, that he was going to harm my family and his death would make us stronger.” Aldrik chuckled bitterly. “As if death makes anyone stronger ...”

The pressure of his gaze weighed on every inch of her body.

“I will never forget that in the end, he asked for mercy from his prince. He asked for forgiveness, and I gave him death.” Aldrik’s body was very still, and his eyes searched hers, yearning for something.

“Aldrik,” Vhalla whispered. She didn’t know what she could offer him. “I’m sorry.” She initiated contact, taking his hand in her own.

He didn’t pull away. “After that, the killing became easier. Soon, I forgot their faces, their cries, their stories. They merged into one communal grave in my mind, which became a gaping wound that everyone who perishes by my hand falls into. But I never forgot that first man’s face. I have tried to plunge him into that hollow void and push him away, but I have never forgotten.”

Vhalla stared at him in a mix of horror and pity. She squeezed his hand and was surprised when she felt a squeeze back.

“I see you taking steps down this path, and I don’t want you be lost to that darkness.” He laughed and bore the most unfiltered sorrow she had ever seen from him. “What is worse is, thanks to the extraordinary wisdom of the people’s Senate, I cannot protect you from that.”

“So, what do I do?” Vhalla finally sought guidance for her guilt.

“Never forget who you are, and do not let the dead define you.” He spoke as if he’d been reading her thoughts for weeks. “Talk to me or Fritz or Larel. I do not think any of us are prepared to lose you to your demons.”