Knightmare Arcanist (Frith Chronicles, #1)

by Shami Stovall

Coal head. Ink brush. They weren’t clever kids—any dumber and you’d have to water them twice a week—they were just mean. No one harassed me after I grew tall, however. Six feet meant I stood out in the group, and not in a wimpy way.

“A power hungry fiend would’ve taken the white hart’s offer to bond,” the voice continued. “A coward would have left Lyell to die and saved himself. A weak-willed sycophant would have bonded with the white hart the moment his life was threatened. But a true knight stands firm in the face of overwhelming darkness.”

A smile crept across my face when I remembered my first boat trip with Gravekeeper William. He was a naval officer through and through and demanded I learn all the proper terms for a boat. Port meant left, starboard meant right, a jib was a triangular sail—and when I called the anchor a stopping hook he nearly had a heart attack. After that, he launched into a terminology tirade that lasted four hours.

“Augmentation,” he said. “That’s when you alter something with your magic, be it yourself or an object. Jumping. Flying. Teleporting. You get the picture. All three of these basics are useful as salt. Every arcanist should know the difference and how to effectively use them.”

I took a step forward, uncertain of what to do with my hands. I shoved them in my pockets, then took them out and fidgeted with the hem of my shirt. Fighting another arcanist had never crossed my mind as one of the first types of training I would do.