Despite my part in finding the Winter Witches, I did not escape punishment. For disobeying my parents, I was once again confined to the walls of our manor for the next few months. At first, I believed my confinement was a simple slap on the wrist to show what I did was wrong, rather than genuine discipline. The next day, however, I learned how wrong my assumption was.

There was no notable change in anyone’s behavior. Dragoslava still came into my room to do her thing, but after she started pushing me out the door, I realized how my punishment would play out.

“You want me to go to the study?” I asked, knowing who was waiting for me.

“What else is in this direction?” she replied.

“Is that a good idea? I mean, I did…you know,” I trailed off.

“I believe it has been explained to you that we are the only ones willing to hire Griste. If he wants to work, he will have to work with you regardless of how he may feel. Now get,” Dragoslava explained.

It did not matter how much sense my maid’s explanation made. Nothing she could have said would have made me confident enough to face Griste once more, a fact not helped by how everything about him felt designed to make those around him uncomfortable.

I wanted to stall until the lessons finished to avoid interactions with him, but I knew I was under intense surveillance after the incident and would not get away with it. With that knowledge in mind, I dragged my feet toward the library.

My mind considered what was waiting for me. Anything I considered felt possible, and upon coming to that conclusion, I realized I had not gotten a read on the skinwalker.

His actions told me he knew how to aggravate people and was aware of it. He had no issue abusing that ability, and I could not help but connect that to the fact no one would hire him. In the back of my mind, I cursed myself for not pressing further why that was the case.

When I opened the door to confront the unpleasant future ahead of me, the sight of the skinwalker sitting at the desk chair greeted me, his fingers holding a book far enough away from his face to be noticeable. Something felt wrong with the world when he flipped the page with the same hand he held the book with.

Indifference was one emotion I suspected he would greet me with, yet it surprised me how long it took him to look up from what he was doing.

“Does anyone here even read French?” he asked as he threw the book behind him.

“They’re more set pieces than something meant to be read,” I answered.

“Really?” he huffed. “So do you not speak French? What languages do you speak?”

“A little English and Russian, the language we’re speaking,” I replied.

“The language you’re speaking. Magic is acting as a translator between us,” Griste mumbled. “Alright. First homework, learn French.”

“Pardon?”

“I don’t expect it to be done by tonight or tomorrow, but do keep it under a year. On to the lesson for the day,” he said, clapping his hands together to form two disks made of metal behind him. “Think fast.”

Before I could comprehend what he meant, one of the disks hurled itself toward me. If not for the shock of something flying toward me, it would have struck me in the nose. My flinch only protected me so much as the object still rammed into my cheek, knocking me off my feet.

“What did I say?” Griste asked, leaning over me as I rolled on the ground in pain.

“What was that?” I groaned, unsure if I wanted to get back out of fear of the other disk.

“I said to think fast. You did not think fast,” he repeated.

“Why?”

“Because if you didn’t, you would have gotten hit,” Griste explained, as if talking to a toddler.

“I did get hit!”

The numbing pain radiating from my bones told me I was going to have a bruise.

“Do not repeat yourself!” I shouted, pulling myself up out of spite. “Why is this part of the lesson?”

“Did Andreaki never do this with you?” he asked.

“No! She taught me what magic was and how it worked!”

“Do you know what magic is? Do you know how it works?” Griste inquired.

“Partially. She alluded to theories and deeper parts, but she always said I was too young to know them!” I explained.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“She would be right about that. Everyone is too young to know those things. Spells are about as deep as you need to go to understand magic. Bloodline Magic maybe. Unless you want to become a researcher, all you need to know about magic is how to use it to get along in most jobs, but I mean, who wants to be a researcher?” he rambled.

“Bloodline Magic?” I asked.

“A more controlled way of utilizing magic. From what I’m told, it results in more efficient mana production and more powerful results.”

“Then why aren’t you teaching me that?” I demanded.

“Your body’s still growing, and it’s something we can teach once you’re done with that. Besides, it is a more difficult thing to pull off. I doubt even your parents can use it,” Griste stated.

“Well, why not spells then?” I asked.

“That’s the plan, but it’s more than a little hard when you can’t think fast,” he explained.

A feeling in my gut created by his last two words spurred me into action, and I dove back to the ground, shielding my face with my arms. Sure enough, I heard the disk whir by, hitting the bookshelf behind me.

“Not bad,” the skinwalker complimented, as I looked around to see where the disk was. “Still not good enough, though.”

Acting in sync with his words, the disk that struck me first hit me again in the back of my head.

—

Disks were not the only thing Griste challenged me with. He flung marbles, rods, triangles, and any other shape imaginable at me with the expectation I would dodge them. No matter how good I got at it, the skinwalker always made it harder.

The pauses in between took the biggest toll. Every ten or so minutes, the skinwalker would wait for my nerves to calm down before throwing them again when my guard dropped. No matter what I did to convince myself otherwise, it never worked.

During some pauses, I questioned how I took metal object after metal object, most often to the head, with no side effects. Although they hurt, the ringing went away before the next barrage came. Nothing ever broke, nor did bruises form. It did not take me long to sum it up as magic, but whether it was being directed at me or the objects, I couldn’t tell.

“I suppose this is enough for now. Go get some breakfast or whatever you do until noon. Come back after lunch,” Griste said after who knew how many hours.

All I did was glare up at him with hatred, and the moment he turned his back, I stuck my tongue out at him.

Before I could leave, something else hit me in the back of my head, and I whipped around with an icicle in hand, ready to throw it at him. The only reason I held it back was the skinwalker pointing to a book at my feet.

“For your homework,” he said, pulling a book off the shelf without bothering to see if I picked it up.

I shot my ice at him and found satisfaction at the sound of the ice shattering, but felt disappointment that it hit an invisible wall and did nothing to Griste.

“What was this? What was any of this?” I demanded, unable to hold back my words.

“Your lesson,” he answered without looking up.

“How was that a lesson?”

“Whatever do you mean?” he inquired. “I think you did quite well for this being your first time.”

“That had nothing to do with magic! If I wanted to exercise, I would go for a walk! Lifting rocks would have been more productive than this!” I roared.

Griste did not react to my outburst at the same speed he had in the past. Instead, he shut the book he had chosen and placed it on the desk.

“That had nothing to do with magic, did it? Remind me: which one of us used magic during those three hours, and which one ran around like a chicken with its head cut off? I don’t know about you, but I am not sweating.”

There was no anger in the skinwalker’s voice, no malice, or hidden undertones. Every word he spoke was one of truth. And it only increased my rage.

“And what was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to do anything with you throwing those-those things at me?”

“Did you try? I don’t recall seeing your magic cast, even as a reaction. Do you? Is there a gap in my memory you want to fill me in on?”

“How do you expect me to concentrate under those conditions?” I yelled.

“That is the question, isn’t it? Let me ask you a question myself. How does your hound cast magic when she fights?”

“We don’t have a dog,” I shot back.

“The maid,” he clarified, rolling his eyes.

“Do not call Dragoslava a dog!” I roared, memories of how Illthic treated her stinging me deeper than I expected.

Griste did not respond to my retort, and under different circumstances, I would have considered such a thing a win. But not against the skinwalker. Something in his eyes told me he wasn’t backing down, and his matter-of-fact tone reinforced the idea.

“How is the maid able to cast magic when she fights?” he repeated.

The realization of what he was getting hit me as hard as any of the metal shapes and left me with nothing to counter his reasoning.

Knowing I couldn’t argue with him any longer, I slammed the door behind me and sank to my knees as it hit me what having Griste as a teacher would mean and what it meant for the next few days.

“I hate him,” I muttered, unsure how true those words were.

I sat in place for longer than I knew I should have, trying to wrestle a hold of my emotions. Once I was confident I wouldn’t explode at the next person I met, I reconsidered what he said about the magic lesson.

My first instinct, or rather, my instinct throughout the entire lesson, was to avoid getting hit. I didn’t even try to leave the room. There wasn’t anything stopping me—no locked doors, no barriers, nothing. I didn’t even try to defend myself despite having the power to create ice out of thin air. And that was just one of many tools I had at my disposal. A sense of shame filled my cheeks as the realization sank in, something that dug deeper as I leaned my head back and hit the door.

With what I know about Griste now, that little bump was enough to tell him everything I was feeling, and I knew he relished in it.