“What you’ve just witnessed is one manifestation of a skill we call outward channeling,” Coach Wilda shouted over the gasps. “It harnesses a power limited only by our concentration and commitment. For instance . . .”

Coach Bora pulled a metal orb from his pocket and held it in front of him.

The orb exploded, sending flakes of metal raining like confetti—or maybe “shrapnel” was a better description.

“Nothing can be spared from the will of a skilled mind,” Coach Bora told them. “Not crystal. Not metal. Not stone. Not even flesh and bone.”

“Did . . . they just admit they’re training us to kill?” Sophie whispered to her friends.

“Sure sounded like it,” Fitz mumbled.

“Indeed it did,” Sandor said, glancing at the other bodyguards.

Their expressions were hard to read. Nervous? Angry?

“We sense your unease,” Coach Rohana told the crowd. “And applaud you for it. Fear breeds restraint and responsibility. But it will not change the fact that this is a skill we each possess naturally. Saber-toothed tigers have claws and fangs. Peluda dragons have poison quills. Even the fragile flitterwings have venom in their tiny teeth. They do not fear these gifts. Yes, some creatures use such things to hunt and others to defend themselves. But either choice doesn’t change the fact that the power exists.”

Sophie could see the logic behind her reasoning. But it still felt like giving everyone guns and hoping they didn’t shoot each other.

And then she remembered Keefe telling her that his Neverseen training included hardcore skill lessons . . .

Were they mastering outward channeling?

“It’s also important to note that power is not a new feature of our world,” Coach Wilda reminded them. “Many of our special abilities could cause tremendous damage should we choose to use them for such. That doesn’t mean we shy away from ability training, does it?”

“Our goals here are simple,” Coach Bora added. “We want you to understand your strength and to be able to call on it should you need it. And together, we want to show the world that—whether they like it or not—we are the strongest creatures. We do not need weapons or armor. Only the strength of our mind and the discipline and determination to master it.”

Murmurs rose among the crowd—most sounding like agreement. But Sophie kept remembering Lady Cadence’s warnings to the Council.

Maybe the elves would be proving their strength. Or maybe they were about to throw a match in a room full of kindling.

“You look . . . concerned,” she whispered to Sandor as the Coaches instructed everyone to head to their assigned tents.

“I am. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to protect you from an attack of this nature—especially one to flesh or bone. And if crystal and stone are also vulnerable, what’s to stop someone from exploding the ground we’re standing on, or shattering a building around us?”

“Our own natural limitations,” Magnate Leto said, sneaking up beside them. “There’s a reason the Coaches chose small orbs for their demonstration. The larger the object, the more energy it takes to destroy it. And while our minds can hold an incredible amount of energy, we also drain most of it through normal daily activities. There are ways to build reserves, of course, but they take a tremendous amount of time and discipline. Very few have such skill or patience. So for most, this power will be saved for an especially desperate moment. Nothing more. And now, I must mingle among the other Ambis, lest someone suspect I have favorite prodigies.”

He winked as he walked away, heading for the far side of the purple tent.

Sophie followed Tam and Linh to the back, where they used to train when they all went to Exillium together.

Halfway there, Tam and Lin froze, their widened eyes fixed on two figures.

A couple with jet-black hair and silvery eyes.

Tam and Linh’s parents.

FORTY-EIGHT

WELL,” TAM’S FATHER said, fidgeting with his cloak pin—two silver-and-black dire wolves craning their necks in a graceful howl. “This is unexpected.”

“It is and it isn’t,” Tam said, his eyes scanning the crowd until he found Magnate Leto, who looked . . . slightly guilty. “But I’ll make it easy.”

Tam took Linh’s hand and turned to walk away.

Their mother grabbed his arm. “Please. Maybe we should—”

Tam jerked free of her hold. “No. We shouldn’t.”

She dropped her eyes to the ground—her slender fingers still lingering in the air as her husband reached for her. There was tenderness in the gesture. A soft gentleness in the way he cradled his wife’s shaky hand, tracing his thumb across her palm.

The love between them was obvious. Even a little sweet.

But it made the tight fist of his other hand so much more heartbreaking as he glared at his children.

“Apologize to your mother. And stop making a scene!” He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the other Ambis watching.

Tam shook his head. “It’s always about appearances with you.”

“Please,” their mother begged as they turned away again. “I never asked for the situation that was handed to me. I’ve never claimed I handled it well.”

“That’s what we are now?” Linh whispered. “A situation?”

Her mom cleared her throat. “What do you want to be?”

“Nothing,” Tam said. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Then you’re doing a good job,” his father told him, frowning at Tam’s silver bangs. Both of the twins had melted their registry necklaces and dipped their hair in the molten metal as proof that they didn’t need the family that left them to fend for themselves.

Tam pulled the silver over his eyes. “You like the look?”

His father shook his head. He didn’t have the arrogance of Lord Cassius, or the unsettling smile or stare. All he looked was tired.

“Children are supposed to respect their parents,” he said quietly.

Linh pulled Tam away. “Respect has to be earned.”

“Wait,” their mom begged. “Just wait.”

Linh glanced over her shoulder. “We waited for more than three years.”

“I know,” her mother whispered. “You look so much older.”