After my early morning trip to the Tree of Life, my spiritual wound had faded to a dull, aching bruise like muscle soreness after strenuous exercise. I had a nice soak in the bath and donned my Healer robes and my sanctity coat, ready for a day of intense studying.

Once my spiritual energy had returned, so did my fortitude.

Enough moping. Bragda's right. I have work to do.

After organizing my parchment notes into piles, I took a deep breath and read over the syllabi for all of my classes. I added up all the pages I had to read in order to catch up on three weeks' worth of work.

Over six hundred pages in two days. No fun this weekend, I guess.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of girls laughing outside my window. Opening the curtains, I watched as a Barbarian lifted a girl one-handed into the air to the roars and cheers of his Fighter friends.

"Put me down!" the blonde Royal shrieked.

She twirled her arms and legs like a wayward windmill, pretending to be upset, but she had a broad grin on her face. The Barbarian acquiesced and set her back down on terra firma.

The Royal pressed her palms against his muscular chest. "Oh, you're so strong."

Ugh, gross.

"Damn straight, babe," he said. "Anyone attacks you, and they'll be dust under my shoe."

She batted her eyelashes. "Oh, Robert, that rhymes."

I rolled my eyes. Well, aren't you clever?

"Come on," another Barbarian said. "Let's grab some grub before the home team plays."

One of his Fighter friends fist-pumped the air. "We're going to smash them!"

How do Barbarians even count as a class?

The group of friends ran off until they left me brooding in silence. I didn't know if I was jealous or repulsed by their behavior.

Probably a bit of both.

I drew the curtains shut a bit more forcefully than necessary and marched over to my desk. With a heavy sigh, I unscrewed my inkwell and ran my fingers over the peacock feather of my quill. Ironing out a fresh piece of parchment with my hand, I dated my notes and opened a giant tome with an ominous thud.

Risan Physiology and Physiognomy.

"Hurrah! Why did I decide to become a Healer again?"

Knock, knock.

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered under my breath.

Knock, knock.

"Who is it?"

No answer.

Knock, knock.

"Oh, stars above!"

I wrenched the door open, and there stood Peter, slouching against the door frame in his original form. He didn't look the same in his black cotton tee and leather armor.

The leather jacket was missing.

"What are you doing here?"

"Good morning to you, too, sunshine." He peeked through the narrow opening. "Alone? May I come in?"

I crossed my arms. "No, you may not."

Peter narrowed his eyes and stared at me in icy silence.

"Look, I have a ton of work to do," I continued, "and I have no time for idle chit-chat or staring contests. So, if you'll please excuse me..."

Peter pressed his boot in between the door and the frame before I had a chance to shut it. "You've forgotten our agreement. I'm here to help you catch up on the work you missed."

"What?" I asked, incredulous. "You've got to be kidding. I'm not going to train with a--"

"A deal's a deal. You kept your word and showed up last night, so I'm here to train you." His eyes twinkled when he added in an affected, ominous voice, "As my apprentice."

"Your apprentice?" I sniggered. "Who in Hades do you think you are?"

He chuckled. "To be honest, I also came to retrieve my jacket."

"Your jacket?"

"What can I say?" He shrugged. "I'm a sucker for leather. Like wine, leather gets better with time. Besides, my father gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday, right before he..."

Peter's gaze clouded over, and my heart twinged. Loss was a feeling I understood all too well. Was that why he was pressuring me to make amends with Father? Because he'd lost his?

"I'd rather not lose it," he concluded in a firm tone.

"Fine, I'll get your jacket," I said, "but I can handle the work on my own."

"Six hundred and forty-seven pages?" he asked with a quirked brow. "Yeah, I don't think so, and neither does Professor Petrescu."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. Not helping."

"Not yet, but I'd like to."

He pushed past me, sauntering into my room.

"Hey, just what do you think you're doing?" I asked with a scowl.

He stared at my duvet, which showed how mana manifests under different spells. "Is this yours? Yeah, it's gotta be."

"What the--?"

He flopped onto it, cupping his hands behind his head. "Comfy, but you really should get a sofa."

"Get off my bed!"

"I would," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "But you don't even have a second chair."

Oh, yeah. Bragda threw it out the window.

"We don't have money for a new one," I said, "And we don't entertain."

"Fair enough." He stood up and gazed around the room. "Why is it as dark as Hades in here when the sun's shining? Do you have traces of Dragonborn blood? Night vision, perhaps?"

"Excuse me?"

He held up his palms and curled his lip. "It's just a question." He narrowed his gaze. "Why? Do you have a problem with dragons?"

"I concentrate better without any distractions," I said with a petulant sigh, nodding my head towards the door. "So, if you don't mind..."

He tutted, his voice laced with feigned hurt. "You're not going to hold that little incident last night against me, are you?"

"Morphing into a demonic monster--horns and all--is not a little incident," I said in an angry whisper.

"Everyone gets a bit horny from time to time."

"Peter!"

He held up his palms and grinned. "You're the one complaining about demonic horns."

"Are you here as a tutor, a recruiter, or a friend?" I scowled. "If you want tutor me, keep it professional. Or are you just using that as an excuse to see me again?"

"You're right," he said in a solemn tone. "We got off on the wrong foot."

I folded my arms. "Indeed."

"I apologize for last night." He shrugged. "I thought you'd want to know your father was alive, and I thought the Fireborn would impress you."

"Well, it certainly did that."

"I thought you'd want to join our side and support your Motherland after what you've seen in your visions," he said, raising an eyebrow.

I grabbed the edge of the door so tightly that my knuckles turned white. "I'm not turning into a demon. Period. I'll heal Fighters on the field, but that's where I draw the line."

"Fair enough."

"Good."

"Fine."

"If you're here just to recruit me, please leave now," I insisted.

"Thanks to my father's draconic blood, I've lived a thousand lifetimes," Peter said, clicking his tongue. "I could be a helpful tutor."

"You're exaggerating."

"Not even a little."

"A thousand lifetimes?" I quirked my brow. "Why don't you look or act a day over twenty?"

"This body and mind are not quite twenty, which can hold me back sometimes," he admitted. "My soul is much older though."

"Risan Shifters aren't immortal."

"True," he replied. "My physical form can die--I just can't die of old age or sickness. If an enemy kills me, I have to revert to my ephemeral form."

"Forever?"

He nodded, outstretching his hand with a dreamy expression. "Or I fade away into the cosmos."

"Ephemeral?" I furrowed my brow. "What, like an angel or something?"

"Ugh, what a sordid term," he said with a grimace. "I don't have wings. I turn into pure energy. Pure light and power, if you will, until the universe converts me into something else."

Peter rose to his feet and sauntered towards my desk chair, over which was draped his leather jacket. He picked it up, sniffed it, and put it on, straightening it with a little tug.

"Ahh, but who wants that? A physical form is so much better." He directed his icy gaze at me, his voice low and mellifluous. "Come on, Lizzy, admit it. A little part of you was intrigued last night."

"Horrified, more like."

"Fine, deny it." Peter shook his head. "At least admit that I sculpted my beautiful Wizard like a maestro. You don't even have urges, and you blushed."

"She was aesthetically pleasing."

"Being a hybrid allows me to make organic art." He grinned and draped his arm over my shoulder. "There's something about the female form, isn't there? So captivating. So alluring."

Peter cast me a sideways glance with those silver-gray eyes of steel. When he released me from his friendly embrace, his fingertips grazed the base of my neck. 

By mistake or on purpose? Traitorous tingles raced down my spine. Stupid human hormones.

"Don't flirt, Peter. I've taken an oath of celibacy. You're wasting your time."

"Very well." He straightened his lapel. "Get your books and let's head to the library. We have work to do."

"I'd rather not go to the library," I said, folding my arms.

"Isn't it more professional than staying here?"

"Fine," I said. "The library it is."

Peter looked like he'd caught a prized deer.