After a few hundred paces Sonea encountered an alcove. Stepping into it, she discovered the mechanism for a hidden door. She found the spy hole that all of the doors contained and put her eye to it.

A room lay beyond, but she could not see much of it. Not only was the room dark, but a piece of dirty glass had been placed over the hole, blurring the view.

But she could see enough to know that the room was empty. Reaching for the mechanism, she pulled a lever and the door swung open. She looked around the room and her breath caught in her throat.

It was the room underneath the High Lord's Residence.

For what seemed an age all she could do was stare around, her heart hammering in her chest. Then slowly her legs obeyed her need to get away. Her hands groped for the lever that would close the door and found it.

As it slid shut her muscles unfroze and she leaned against the cold wall, her heart returning to a steady rhythm.

Suddenly, the tell-tale pale white light of a magician's globelight grew stronger from around the end of the passageway. Sonea almost stopped breathing entirely in fear. Someone was about to round the corner ahead of her!

But there was no way out – in the other direction lay the Residence's underground room. She couldn't suddenly emerge in the Residence in the middle of the day; Takan was surely there, and would tell Akkarin she was not in class.

Her head spun as the globelight grew stronger. Pressing herself into the shadows, she created a skin-tight sight shield around herself and prayed that, whoever it was, they would turn a corner before they reached her.

Too late. Piercing dark eyes in a pale face appeared, the globelight above his head. His black robes were covered with a heavy black cloak, and its metal clasp bore the High Lord's incal.

Those black eyes looked directly at where Sonea stood still, holding her breath. Please. Please, let my sight shield hold.

Akkarin took a step closer, and another. His gaze slid away from Sonea to the mechanism of the door that led to his residence. Sonea continued to hold her breath as Akkarin seemed to walk past her, looking like he was making for the door. He hasn't seen me, Sonea thought, dizzy with relief.

Then her stomach flipped as Akkarin turned his head to look directly at her, and made a lazy gesture with his elegant, pale hand. Sonea's sight shield faded away like a wisp of smoke.

Her terrified eyes locked onto his cold ones. They glinted with anger.

"You never learn, do you," his whisper dripped with threat. In one agile movement, he reached out his arm and gripped Sonea by the pale, slim throat, pushing her up against the wall. She yelped in fear, coughing as his hold tightened.

Akkarin stepped close, towering over her like a black shadow. Sonea's face was level with his chest. He bent down and she felt his warm breath on her ear. "And here I thought we were making such progress," he crooned.

"I'm sorry, High Lord" Sonea whispered, struggling to breathe. She looked up at him with wide eyes. "Please, I only – "

Akkarin draw back his hand and give her cheek a sharp slap. Sonea's face snapped to one side and she fell silent, her mouth open from the shock of it.

"Deliberately disobeying my orders, then daring to ask for leniency?" Akkarin hissed, his black-robed figure almost swallowed up by the darkness in the tunnel.

He held her against the wall with magic, then slapped her again, on the other cheek. Sonea shut her eyes, her heartbeat pounding in her head.

His long, pale fingers then snaked their way between her head and the wall, grasping a fistful of her hair and holding her immobile. Sonea's eyes fly open with a gasp of pain. The High Lord's pale face loomed above hers, closer than he had ever been before. Sonea could see the smoothness of his lips; his black eyelashes; and the faintest age lines around his eyes and mouth, which seemed to add to his severity, his authority.

Then one corner of his lips curled upwards. "You know, I'm beginning to think you are doing this deliberately."

One hand still in her hair, the High Lord brushed his hand across her right breast, following their small shape, then slid it down to her waist, feeling through her brown silk robes. Sonea's breath hitched in her throat, trembling in anticipation where that light touch went.

"She doesn't want what Rothen's son was offering, does she, my little novice?" Akkarin breathed, lowering his face to brush his lips lightly across Sonea's neck. Her gasp was muffled by a hand that clamped over her mouth. He brought his lips up to her ear, and murmured, "She wants a man, not a boy. She came down here hoping to get caught by her guardian. "

Tears began stinging Sonea's eyes. Her heart was pounding frantically, but the tiniest voice in her head said: You wanted this. You crave him.

"Didn't she?" Akkarin snarled quietly, one hand reaching for the sash of her novice's robes.

Sonea closed her eyes as hot tears trailed down her cheeks. "Yes," she gave an almost inaudible whisper.

She could hear the vibration of his quiet chuckle against her ear. "What an unexpected gift you are, Sonea. A powerful novice under my control, and a willing plaything."

With a jerk, he suddenly held her by one upper arm and turned her around to press her front up against the cold, damp wall with his body, gripping both her wrists behind her back. Sonea cried out as her cheek, inflamed from his slap, scratched against the rough surface of the stone passageway.

The High Lord buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply as his hard, clothed manhood pressed against her lower back.

At the evidence of his arousal, Sonea felt like the last of her resistance melted away. She wanted him to want her; she wanted to please him. The rebellious voice in her head pulled her thoughts in the opposite direction – I am not your plaything! – but an inexplicable urge pulled her towards surrender.

She tilted her head back onto his chest to allow him access to her neck, letting slip a quiet moan when she felt his teeth scrap across her collarbone. His tall, powerful body bore down upon her with its full weight, crushing her breasts against the wall. What would it feel like to have the weight of this man upon me? Sonea thought. To be possessed by this dangerous, powerful man forbidden to me…

It would be sweet, dizzy surrender. Sonea was so tired. She had been so strong for so many years. She was so relieved to finally give in… To yield to his dark, all-consuming presence… to the softness around her… Softness?

A slamming sound in the distance. Blinding light.

Sonea awoke gasping, staring at the strips of bright – extremely bright – winter sunlight across her ceiling. Her duvet was wrapped uncomfortably tightly around her, and her heart was pounding as if she had just ran across the rooftops of Northside.

Her mind was disoriented. It fought to stay in the dream, fought to recall the sensations that had seemed so real. But its memory was fast fading the more she grew conscious.

Sonea reached down and sighed in relief as she loosened the duvet and felt the pleasantly cool air of her room where she freed her arms and chest from it. Down the corridor, she heard the muffled sounds of a broom. It jolted her mind into waking up fully: if the servants were cleaning, that meant it was well past the usual time she woke up.

Then she recalled it was a Freeday, and her third-year examinations had ended four days ago. Her last one, a Warrior Skills practical, had concluded two weeks of frantic study and practice, and Lord Yikmo had been pleased with her when they reviewed how she had done. Not yet what you are capable of, but better, much better, he had said.

The quality of the winter sunlight had her suspecting snow, and she was right. Stretching her arms and stepping out of bed, Sonea spent a moment gazing out at the peaceful scene outside her window. The Guild grounds were covered in a fluffy blanket of white. A path between the University, Magicians' Quarters, and Novices' Quarters had already been cleared with magic, and a grouping of brown robes near the Dome – their size suggested their were first-years – were laughing and chucking snow at each others.

She gazed at how carefree and childish they looked, feeling completely cut off from their simple joy. Her dream's details had now faded away from her mind, but she could not forget the feeling of the High Lord's body pressing up against her back, pinning her to the wall. The sensation of her legs barely holding her own weight, because him bearing down on her was enough to hold her upright against the cold stone.

Sonea's eyes hurt from the brightness of the snow, but she barely blinked as she continued looking outside. She was now hardly seeing what was in front of her. What should have by all accounts been a nightmare – and she had, months ago, had nightmares featuring a black-robed figure – had been something else entirely.

Even moments after waking, Sonea could sense the place between her legs thrumming gently, and feeling of relief that had run through her as she threw her head back onto her guardian's chest in sensual surrender. How could her mind be seeking out the figure responsible for her torment?

"The Eye's games," she muttered to herself in words she had heard from Jonna whenever her aunt would wake Sonea up from a dream. The dwells believed the moon ruled dreams, and it wasn't always a benign ruler. On some nights, the Eye of heaven liked making mischief in human minds.

She didn't need to think too hard to guess at what may have led to the dream. The penultimate day of her exams, when she had walked into his study to get permission to attend the Midwinter Meet. Sonea had no idea why seeing Akkarin without the top half of his robes, relaxing against his desk, strangely informal and casual, had so completely thrown her thoughts into disarray.

The silken black vest couldn't quite hide the shapeliness of his chest and slim waist, and his pale, muscled shoulders and arms weren't hidden at all. There was something unexpectedly intimate about seeing the sparse black hair covering his forearms – like suddenly seeing evidence that he was a flesh-and-blood man, with blood in his veins and a scent to his skin. The High Lord so often glided about silently like a shadow, it was easy to think he was otherworldly.

Even now Sonea could feel herself blushing as her mind conjured up the image in detail. Don't be ridiculous, she told herself. You've seen plenty of bare arms before. Though magicians remained in robes all year, all the men of the Outer Circle and slums wore vests in the summer heat. That had never embarrassed her.

She moved away from the window and splashed water on her face from the basin near her bed. Rubbing rigorously, as if that would shake the memory of the dream out of her, she dried herself with a clean linen cloth.

Feeling a little more awake after the cold water on her face, Sonea glanced with a frown at the dress Viola had hung outside her wardrobe for this evening. It had stung her pride to accept funds from the High Lord to purchase a dress and adornments for the Midwinter Meet, but he had cornered her with a convincing argument.

She could neither show up in a borrowed dress in the colours of another House, nor spend her whole novice's allowance on a suitably expensive dress. If she did, she would have to forgo the basket of vegetables and meat that she bought Jonna and Ranel every month with half of her allowance. Accepting what Akkarin offered had, she had to admit, solved both problems. She had grudgingly went with his suggestion of a black dress, and made some alterations for her short height.

The necklace and earrings that Viola had laid out on Sonea's desk, however, made her smile when her gaze fell on them. She knew nothing about jewels, and wouldn't have been able to tell a fake ruby or emerald from real ones. So she had forgone that altogether for a touch of her own origins. Northside was known for its bronze work, and she had found a hammered bronze earrings and a pendant in the shape of a crescent moon. A fully open Eye portended madness, but a half-open sliver was the best of omens in Kyralia.

A knock on her door made her jump.

"Miss Sonea? Are you up?"

Her servant Viola's voice, which always managed to sound like a scolding even through a respectful address.

"Yes, come in!" Sonea called out. She smiled as Viola entered with a set of freshly laundered brown novice's robes. Sonea decided to enjoy a walk in the snow before a leisurely day at the library and the baths. The cold air seemed a welcome prospect after that troubling dream.

—-

Akkarin looked around with a half-smile, seeing a few personal objects here and there that tugged at his memories. He rarely came to Lorlen's rooms in the Magician's Quarter, preferring to invite him over to his own residence for the sake of privacy and Takan's excellent cooking. But the Administrator's rooms were on the top floor, and quite comfortable, as they were the largest suite in the building. The High Lord was settled in a couch in the small sitting room with a glass of pale wine in his hand, but he could still hear Lorlen speak from the open door than led to a dressing room.

"Barran has sent word that he needs to see me, but I don't really see why it's necessary…" said the Administrator, his voice raised to carry to Akkarin from somewhere in that room.

The High Lord rose and approached one of the bookshelves, looking at the titles of the volumes. "Unless he thinks that you can identify the body he found, I do not see the need," he replied.

Akkarin's tone was uninterested. But at that very moment, he was having a blood gem conversation with his trusted servant.

– Takan, I cannot return to the residence tonight until late. You will need to take the passages to our associate's rooms.

– Yes master. I remember the way.

– Good. Find out what went wrong. This is the first time they have failed to take care of a body quietly and permanently. Tell him to see to it that it doesn't happen again. I will visit him myself tomorrow to… caution for more his diligence on his part.

– I will, master.

Lorlen walked into the sitting room just as Akkarin brought his full attention back to his surroundings. The Administrator didn't notice; he was tugging at the silk sky-blue cravat at his neck. He was in the tailored long coat, high-necked shirt, and cravat combination favoured at court and among the Houses in recent years. His coat was dark grey with a subtle silvery sheen to it when he moved; a velvet waistcoat in sky-blue completed it.

"I'd forgotten House Rilken's colours," Akkarin replied with a small smile. He poured a glass of the pale wine and held it out to Lorlen. "You have rarely been out of your Administrator's robes these past few years."

Lorlen accepted the glass, but his eyes looked tired and the corners of his mouth seemed to have acquired new, prominent worry lines ever since he had discovered his former best friend's dark secret. "It pains me to be long out of the green robes, but certainly not out of this," he gestured at himself. "It sits uneasy on me. Unlike you," he added, eyeing Akkarin's black longcoat, dark green velvet waistcoat, and black silk cravat with an emerald pin.

Akkarin raised an eyebrow. "Fortunate, then, that its burdens do not fall on you. As High Lord, I do not have the luxury of refusing to sit on his Majesty's council."

Lorlen's hazel eyes narrowed. "Yes, I imagine it must be quite a burden to be the most powerful magician in all of the Allied Lands." His tone unmistakably reminded Akkarin that he knew the High Lord had arrived at this accolade through dubious means.

Akkarin set down his half-finished glass, his jaw set with irritation at Lorlen's refusal to meet him halfway in his attempts to extend some kind of peace between the two of them. Every time their conversation veered too close to that of friends, Lorlen said something that seethed with resentment to remind Akkarin that he was his hostage, not his friend. Does he not have every right to hate you? He thought to himself. From friendship to black magic and blackmail…

But he kept his self-censure to himself, looking for all the world the picture of cold confidence and aristocratic arrogance in the colours of House Velan. "Shall we?" He asked, gesturing for Lorlen to leave his chambers first.

A crowd of magicians in their House colours and formal attire was a rare sight at the entrance of the Magician's Quarters. Without robes, the crowd could have been milling about at court, waiting for an audience with the King. But as Lorlen and Akkarin descended the stairs and joined the group heading across the snowy lawn to the University, familiar faces approached them to make small talk on the way to the Guildhall.

With a barely perceptible curl of his lip, Akkarin noticed that getting out of robes had already helped shed some inhibitions. Magicians who rarely came up to speak to him now engaged him in conversation on route.

The Guildhall had been transformed for the occasion: the high rows of chairs on either sides and the Higher Magician's chairs up in the dias now gone. There was a high table that ran along the breadth of the hall for the magicians, and many smaller, round tables of eight and ten for novices taking up the rest of the hall. The tables were sumptuously laid out with silverware and pure white tablecloths, while the stone walls were decorated with silver ornaments that looked dusted with a fine layer of false snow.

The novices, all third to fifth years, were already seated at the round tables, a mix of colours, textures and jewels. Their excited chatter quietened for just a moment as magicians entered the hall and strode down the middle to take their seats at the high table.

"High Lord," Lord Balkan took his seat near the middle of the high table then gestured for Akkarin to take the high-backed chair at the exact centre. Akkarin inclined his head politely and took the central seat. Servants who had been standing up against the walls immediately came forward with decanters of wine and water, serving all of the magicians first.

Sarrin was at his left-hand side. The old Alchemist leaned over towards the High Lord with a grimace. "Surely the Guildhall is not the best place for Midwinter Meet, given the numbers. All this noise will damage it over time…"

"Hence our magical fortifications, Lord Sarrin," Akkarin replied smoothly, his black eyes never for a moment ceasing its hawk-like sweep of all in attendance before him.

"They may go some way in preventing wear and tear, but it is a heritage building not fit for social…"

The Alchemist's complains faded away to the background of his awareness as the High Lord's dark gaze found what it was looking for.

As if she had felt his piercing gaze upon her from a distance, the High Lord's novice looked up and locked eyes with her guardian.

Seated with seven others, who were in ostentatious silks, coloured velvet and glittering jewels, Sonea was, to others, easily overlooked in black. But in the eyes of the High Lord, her choice of dress – having listened to me for once, Akkarin thought amusedly – actually made her stand out immediately.

Sonea's colour rose slightly, then she politely inclined her head and tore her gaze away, returning her attention the conversation happening at her table.

The High Lord's lips curled into a half-smile as his gaze lingered on the corset-like black bodice. Its low neckline was rendered sophisticated rather than suggestive with the addition of long, modest sleeves made of black lace. She had not purchased jewels, but polished bronze earrings nestled among the strands of black hair that fell loose from the bun her servant had arranged intricately. A bronze half-moon pendant hung at her throat, nestled between the barest hint of the two white mounds of her breasts.

As the Head of Warriors leant forward to engage Akkarin in conversation, the High Lord looked to Lord Balkan. He did not notice that his novice's gaze returned to him once his own attention was elsewhere. Safe from the penetrating look of those cold, black eyes, Sonea took in her captor with a growing sense of unease in her belly.

She took in the way the high neckline of his white shirt framed his jaw; the shine of the silk black cravat, and the dark green waistcoat that she now knew hid a chiseled chest. She noticed he had opted for a dark green, not black, ribbon tonight to tie back his long, glossy black hair. Her gaze then dropped to his long, pale fingers, which held a crystal wine glass with practiced elegance. She recalled from her dream the feel of those fingers running through her hair, grasping a fistful of it harshly.

Suddenly, the bodice of her dress felt too tight to breathe.