A Wicked Game [The Crown Saga II] (Under Editing)

Five Thrones

I threw the staff halfway across Art's studio.

"Why won't this stupid thing work?" I shouted as Art teleported to catch my weapon before it hit the floor.

It had felt so natural and easy to wield the broom shaft when I'd fought those bullies in the Golden City. The sensation of forcing my powers through the broom shaft was still vividly alive in my mind. I just couldn't recreate it now, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why.

"Think back to how you felt that day," Art said for the sixth time today as he handed me the cursed stick I'd hoped to rid myself of forever.

Art had returned yesterday — a few days following myself and the other suitors. He hadn't told me about his trip, nor had I dared to ask, given his bitter mood.

Apparently, the winds had carried word to him about my little uproar in the streets of the Golden City. He'd have to cut his trip short and ordered me to show up in his studio today to have me explain the exact details of the event.

I'd told him everything except for the part about the Mortis Crow. It had flown away immediately after we'd locked eyes, so there hadn't really been much to tell anyway.

"Again," Art said, stepping back to give me a clear shot at the statue.

I grunted in frustration and tightened my grip on the rounded handle. Nothing could be gained from spitting new curses at him, so I aimed the staff at the statue mocking me from the shelf and commanded the wind.

Nothing. Still nothing.

"Cursed blood!" I exclaimed, swinging the staff to hit the empty air before turning toward Art with a defeated expression. "Is it the staff? Did you give me one that suppresses my powers?"

Art sighed. "There is nothing wrong with your weapon," he said, stepping closer as if unbothered by my rage. "Listen, Will. It may seem as if the universe is conspiring against you, but this weapon is no different from the broom shaft. You just need to recall what you did that day."

Fine. If he wanted another useless demonstration, he could have it.

I curled my fingers bitterly around the wood and marched back to the statue of the most hated Pavo of all time — at least in my opinion.

Recall what I did that day. I was angry because those Iridis were picking on a helpless boy. They may as well have been picking on Tristan.

The thought sparked a surge of fury to rise in my mind, spreading to the rest of my limbs through the blood carrying my powers — a fury powerful enough to turn my winds into storms.

I wanted to send those two boys — and this wretched statue — on a one-way trip to the unidentified location of the Golden Cave, and it gave me purpose.

I raised the staff above my head and leaped forward, but just as I was about to unleash the forces I'd been saving for this moment, Art's voice tore through the stirring air. "Stop, Willow!" he shouted, but it was already too late.

Winds the size of hurricanes blasted from the tip of my staff, breaking much more than the insulting face of the fifth Pavo. The shelves behind it collapsed, scattering books and decorations across the floor.

"I did it," I whispered as the winds settled and the sounds of objects smashing faded. "I'm sorry about the mess, Art, but I finally did it! Art—"

My breath hitched when I turned around to face my master. His stare was as icy as the fury dripping from his furrowed brow.

"No," Art suddenly said, his deep voice resonating between the bare walls.

"No?" I said, confused beyond logic. "But I—"