Gray hit the floor of the king's office hard enough to knock the breath from his chest.

A boot landed on his neck.

'Dead again.' Whitlock loomed over him, unimpressed. His burly shoulders blocked the sunlight streaming through the window, and his ginger hair looked on fire. 'How many times is that now?'

Gray gritted his teeth. He'd stopped counting.

He'd already gone through his magical control training with Mali. Breathe in. Focus on the barriers guarding your power, she'd said.

Rather than let Gray focus entirely on making the orbs hum, she'd talked through nearly the entire first half hour.

'Control and access to your magic will increase and become easier after each ryece,' Mali had continued. 'Ryeces are a soft magic. Unpredictable. Ryeces can come after you've pushed yourself beyond your limits, but not always. And they come when they're ready. You can't - shouldn't - rush a ryece. No pushing past your limits until you've been trained on where your limits are.

You need to learn exactly where your boundaries are, before you even think of stepping past them.'

There was no such gentleness or respect of limits when it came to Whitlock.

Gray was getting pushed.

Hard.

Gray twisted, tried to throw Whitlock off, but the man just shoved him back down.

'Think,' Whitlock muttered. 'You remember the grip I showed you yesterday?'

The man had shown Gray about a dozen grips yesterday. And Gray's hands were slick with sweat. His muscles were beginning to shake with fatigue.

He wasn't going to grip and throw a man like Whitlock.

Not right now.

'Pathetic,' said Whitlock. 'You can't remember a simple grip.'

Gray clenched his jaw, humiliation burning through his exhaustion. He shifted his weight, kicked up - not at Whitlock, but at a nearby table with books.

They tumbled to the floor and Whitlock glanced back.

It was just enough of a distraction that Gray could shove him, forcing a stumble from Whitlock.

Gray twisted free, rolling to his feet.

Whitlock gave a half smile. 'Dirty tactic.'

'Are we worried about sportsmanship right now?' said Gray breathlessly.

Whitlock grinned.

Gray barely had time to wipe sweat from his face before his next instructor - tactics - began dragging the plaster model of Krydon into the centre of the room.

—

Gray trailed behind the king.

Streaks of red sunlight from the setting sun reached through the doors of the huge stables, and illuminated the bowing stablehands and restless horses in a warm glow.

The scent of hay and leather and animals filled the air, but Gray barely registered it.

He could hardly stand.

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His arms shook. His head throbbed.

He focused solely on putting one foot in front of the other. Each step sent a dull, reverberating ache through his legs. His thoughts were sluggish, wrapped in the cloying fog of fatigue.

He'd snuck in some reading of his book on griffins during his twenty-minute lunch break, but reading the dense Lismerian was not fast or easy to process.

Griffins are proud and dangerous beasts.

Symbolic of gold and protection, griffins were used as guards for treasure hordes by mages gifted with the ability to communicate with them.

To care for your griffin, you must first develop a strong bond of respect and trust …

If there were instructions on how to talk with a griffin in that book, Gray hadn't yet found it.

After lunch, Hunark had pushed him, training again with the enchanted axe. So had Daremid, making Gray memorise rune after rune perfectly. Every swirl, every tail, every detail. And in the end Mali had talked Gray through magical control, again, until he could hold two orbs humming in harmony at will.

The failure to control three orbs stung, and Gray fought down a wave of frustration at the memory of the king, everyone, in that office watching. Waiting. Judging.

And seeing him fail.

You, Mali had said, her voice whisper-quiet and for only Gray to hear, need to relax your guards. You're shielding your own power, when you need to be embracing it. Courage, Gray …

Hay changed to feathers underfoot.

Gray dropped his weary gaze to the golden feathers, bringing his mind back to his current surroundings. They looked soft and inviting. Gray could just sit down, lean against that wall, and sleep-

The griffin's stall loomed ahead, and Gray forced his chin up, blinking rapidly to stay alert.

'Corentin,' the king called.

Corentin emerged from the stall, wearing the same blue hood and golden feathers in her black hair as yesterday. Her large and dark eyes were on the griffin as she led it out, and it regally followed her on a loose leather rein.

The griffin moved with a powerful fluidity.

'You,' she said, smiling and bowing at the king and then Gray, 'colour the stars.'

There was a quiet moment as Gray tried to piece together her meaning. His mind scraped at the words like fingers searching for purchase on ice.

Carefully, he took the rein. The griffin snorted, stamping his clawed front foot hard against the cobblestones.

The impact shook through Gray's bones.

Gray's fingers flinched against the leather. He held his ground, but it was a close thing. He wanted nothing more than to drop the rein and back off, in search of the dead rabbits and mice that the griffin liked so much.

'He's skittish today,' said Corentin happily.

This was the most straightforward thing Corentin had yet said to Gray, and he stared at her. His heart began to hammer. His fatigue was wrenched away from him, pulled as reluctantly as a hungover man from his bed. The thought of miscalculating and taking a beak or talon to the face was making his breath short.

The griffin's eyes were fixed on him, sharp and appraising.

'I think,' said Gray, 'maybe I should feed him more of his favourite treats first. That seemed to work.'

The king leant forward, his tone quiet and cold. 'I need him not to die, Corentin. Let's put the griffin back in the stall for now, yes? I need Gray to not be trampled.'

'You,' said Corentin.

Her wide eyes were so hopefully that Gray internally sighed, feeling the last of his energy resurrect as though from his boots. He edged towards the griffin who tolerated his existence when he was feeding him. Without food, Gray wasn't entirely sure where he stood.

He breathed in. Slow. Focused.

Mali's words - you can't rush it. Don't push past your limits until you know where they are - came to his mind.

Gray's whole body screamed to tense. His muscles wanted to tighten, to lock, to be on high alert and brace for another failure. His muscles shook, from exhaustion, from constantly fighting against himself. From pushing, pushing, pushing.

Maybe that was why he was failing. He was trying to force something open instead of listening.

He exhaled. Gentled his posture and loosened his grip on the rein. Then, moving slowly, imitating the fluidity of the griffin, performed the brow-to-chest gesture.

A sign of respect. A sign of trust.

Hand steady. Deliberate. Reaching out.

The griffin considered him. His golden eye was fierce. Hot breath streamed out of its nostrils. Its talons flexed against the cobblestones.

The world was silent.

Gray's pulse thundered.

The griffin dipped its head. Slowly, agonisingly, it bumped his smooth beak against Gray's open palm.

Gray nearly collapsed. Relief crashed through him so fast and hard he had to force himself to stay upright. He was engulfed by the feeling of home. He could feel the whispering and murmuring sensations from the griffin. The warm breath covered his fingers. Something brushed against his mind. Pulled.

Gray glanced back at Corentin and the king.

Corentin had the same hopeful expression.

The king was utterly unreadable. 'Careful,' he said.

'Colour the stars,' said Corentin.

'Colour the stars,' Gray murmured. 'OK.'

Gray faced the griffin and attempted to do his magic control exercises.

He felt himself give inside, a further sinking into gentle relaxation within his body.

The griffin tilted its head to Gray and looked him in the eye.

Blooming in Gray's mind, clear as day, deep and serious, a voice that was not his own,

'Get on, ash-stink, she wants to go flying.'

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