The training yard smelled faintly of scorched fabric and singed hair. Not your fault. Okay, mostly not your fault.

The two Squallers had been smirking since the start of drills, whispering about how the little ray of sunshine was useless in real combat. One of them thought it’d be hilarious to blow a gust of wind so strong it knocked you flat on your back in front of everyone. The laugh he let out was the final spark to your very short fuse.

So you lit him up.

Literally.

His kefta caught first, and then — well, the blast wasn’t that big — but it got close enough to the other one’s hair that half of it went up like dry grass. The air filled with the scent of burning and the sound of high-pitched yelping, though the fire died fast enough to keep them safe. Other Grisha were glaring at you like you’d set fire to the Little Palace itself.

Before you could even smirk at your handiwork, the air shifted. Not with wind — with him.

A shadow stretched across the yard, swallowing the sunlight. The laughter and shouting died instantly, replaced with an oppressive, cold silence. And then he stepped into view — Aleksander, the Darkling — his black kefta trailing behind him like a shadow come to life, his pale gray eyes fixed directly on you.

“Enough,” he said, and the word carried like a blade.

Every Grisha froze. You didn’t. Not really. You just stood there, chin lifted, pretending your pulse wasn’t pounding in your ears. His gaze didn’t waver as he crossed the distance, each step measured, unhurried — the kind of calm that’s far more dangerous than yelling.

When he reached you, he didn’t ask questions. He didn’t look at the still-smoking Squallers. He just grabbed your wrist — firm, unyielding — and tugged you away from the yard.

“Let go,” you snapped, yanking against his grip. He didn’t even glance back.

“Do you have any idea what a liability you are?” His voice was low, smooth, but sharpened on the edges. “One day with the Second Army and you’ve managed to burn half of my Grisha.”

“They started it.”

“And you finished it by turning my training yard into a spectacle.” His voice didn’t rise, but somehow it still cut deeper than a shout. He moved toward you, his boots crunching over the sand until he stood close enough for you to see the pale steel of his eyes.

Without warning, he took your wrist in a grip that was firm and unyielding. “You will not use your power to show off. Not here. Not ever.”

He turned, tugging you away from the stares of the others, the shadows seeming to follow like a silent escort.