They all knew better than to say it in his earshot, but sometimes a thing didn’t need to be said to be heard, loud and clear, in someone’s posture, their expression, their gaze.
They forgot, that he was not just the king’s consort, and a royal in his own right, but also a triad. If anyone else could have seen the magic twining around Alucard now, they’d count not one strand, or even two, but three. Earth. Wind. Water.
Alucard Emery may not be an Antari, but he was still one of the strongest magicians in the world.
And he was happy to remind them.
He raised his voice. “These sparring drills are good enough for stamina,” he said, “but they are no substitute for practical experience. Which is why it’s important to spar as well. You never know who you’ll be up against. You’ll never know what they can do.”
He let his gaze drift over the recruits, noting the magic on the air around them. Few knew about Alucard’s peculiar sight, and he preferred to keep it that way. But it came in handy, when sizing up opponents. The soldiers gathered here were earth and water mostly, one or two wind, a handful of fire. No sight of bone, with its strange violet light, but that was hardly a surprise. The talent wasn’t just rare, but forbidden. It went against the rules of magic and the laws of nature to control another body, and when a child did show an early affinity, they were quickly dissuaded from pursuing it. If they were smart, they listened. If they weren’t—well, there were spells to sever a body from its magic.
“Tac,” said Alucard, spreading his hands. “Who wants to spar with me?”
Murmurs ran through the recruits. Alucard smiled. He raised the offer at least once a week, and in truth, it was for him as much as them. He missed the tournaments and the life at sea, the hundred ways to keep his magic keen. He held back, of course. He always held back. But now and then, for a moment at least, he found what he was looking for, the pulse-quickening thrill.
Some stepped forward, eager for the challenge. Others fell back, happy to watch. Alucard shrugged off his coat and tossed it onto a nearby post, unfastened his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, and considered the options. He was no longer looking at their powers. He was studying their faces, searching for the shadows, the darkness, the disdain.
He found it quickly, on the face of a young man, his black hair swept back off his face.
“You,” he said. “What’s your name?”
The recruit straightened. “Yarosev.”
“Yarosev,” snapped Isra. “Is that how you address a member of the royal family?”
And there it was. His lips tightened in a sneer. His fire magic danced red on the air around his shoulders. “My name is Yarosev, Your Highness.”
Alucard smiled. “Well, Yarosev,” he said, drawing a blade. “Whenever you’re—”
The recruit was fast, he had to give him that.
Yarosev drew his own sword, and at the same time, his hand shot out, his lips already forming the words he’d need to call forth magic. But words needed air.
Alucard’s free hand vised shut, trapping the air in the soldier’s chest.
Yarosev gasped, or tried, his mouth flapping like a fish flung onto land, as Alucard surged forward, blade slicing toward his chest.
His eyes widened as he lunged back, knocking the steel away. Alucard struck again, and again, none of the blows meant to land, let alone wound. No, he was taking his time, watching as the young soldier’s face turned red, then purple, then blue. Yarosev stumbled, fell, was on the ground now, but didn’t quit. He kept his sword up, the point shaking with the effort. The anger in his eyes had changed, twisted into a different kind of fire. He had fight in him. Alucard would give him that.
He flicked his free hand, let go of the air in Yarosev’s lungs. The recruit gasped, and heaved. His sword hand fell.
Alucard sheathed his own weapon, and held out his hand to help the young recruit up, but Yarosev fisted a handful of dirt and flung it up into Alucard’s face, in a last, desperate attempt to gain an upper hand. It might have worked, if Alucard hadn’t seen it coming. It might have worked, if he were a lesser magician. But he wasn’t. Alucard flicked his fingers, and the dirt stopped, and hung suspended, inches from where it left Yarosev’s fist.
The recruit slumped onto his back, gasping for breath. He rapped the ground with his knuckles, signaling surrender.
Alucard let the dirt rain back to the ground and then leaned over and held out his hand again.
This time, Yarosev took it.
“Well done, soldier,” he said, hauling the recruit to his feet.