were no bushes or shrubbery, just an empty space with bales of hay and blocks of wood.
He didn't even seem to be aware that he was oozing frost. I bit my lip and considered telling him, but when he stopped suddenly and whirled around, nearly causing me to collide into his back, I decided against it. I wanted to live and he looked mad enough to cut me down without batting an eye.
"Training," he spat the word as if it were vile and offensive. To him, I supposed it was. He'd been ordered to stand down by Roan and Orion and even as little as I knew about Sorrell, I knew that orders were not something he took easily. "Here is where we'll train until they get back," he stated.
"Okay," I said easily.
"You managed to do well enough in the heat of the moment," he continued. "But healing and sharing energy to restore life is not the same as being able to actively use your magic defensively."
"What about offensive?" I inquired. "Won't I need to know that?"
His anger melted a bit, but his facial expression remained cold. "No."
I frowned. "Why not?"
"You simply won't need to use your magic offensively," he said.
I huffed out a breath and crossed my arms over my chest. "I'm not stupid," I snapped.
One light colored brow rose. "I never said you were," he replied.
"We're in the middle of a war," I said. "Of course I'll have to use my magic offensively. Hell, I could've used it in that damned tower. I tried—" My voice cut out as I recalled my absolute failure. In the face of my capture, imprisonment, and escape, I had been utterly useless. I'd had to rely on others for assistance and things were only going to get worse. "I practiced in my cell," I admitted to Sorrell. "But even with a week of practice, all I managed to conjure were a few orbs of light and heat."
I waited a beat after those words left my lips. I half expected that Sorrell would scoff at me and tell me he wasn't surprised that a Changeling like me was incompetent. Even the physicians at the Court of Frost had said that my magic was weak, but any magic was better than none, right? When he still hadn't said anything after a long moment, I glanced up.
Sorrell was looking at me with a peculiar expression. One I hadn't seen on his face before. As if he were stunned by my mere presence and then also, at the same time, trying to dissect what I was.
"Do you believe yourself to be … weak?" he asked hesitantly.
I shrugged. "Well, yeah." Wasn't that obvious? Ever since I'd found out I was, in fact, a Changeling and ever since my magic had first formed, I'd wondered why it came so much harder for me than it seemed to for everyone else.
"Why?" Sorrell commanded, his brows drawing down low over his eyes as he continued to stare at me.
"I can't do anything," I confessed, and despite my best efforts, I could tell my feelings of frustration and shame were heard as well. "I was trapped in a small room in the dark for a week with nothing else to do but practice and all I managed to do was shoot off a few sparks. My magic is worthless."
"No magic is worthless," he said sharply, stepping up to me so fast that I nearly stumbled as I tried to back away—so used to him trying to keep from touching me rather than seeking me out—but he captured me and held me with his hands on my elbows and his eyes on mine. "Say it," he ordered.
"W-what?" I stuttered. My mind had gone blank. The only thing I could see or think of was the swirling mass of blue in his eyes.
"Repeat after me," he said. "No magic is worthless."
I frowned at him. "Mine is," I argued. "It doesn't do anything. I think I'm magic-incompetent."
"That is unacceptable," Sorrell said, shaking his head. He squeezed my elbows until I winced. "Say it."
I pressed my lips together out of rebellion for several long seconds, but Sorrell's gaze remained on mine, fixated on my face as if he was ready and willing to hold me in place until I caved to his demands. I shifted on my feet, and still, he kept his hold.
Huffing out a breath, I finally surrendered. "No magic is worthless," I grumbled under my breath, just loud enough for him to