“You’re losing concentration,” he said, but his voice had lost some of its edge.
“Hard to concentrate with you looming,” I muttered.
“Get used to it. In actual combat, your enemies won’t maintain a respectful distance.”
He was right, which was annoying. But there was something else—the way he’d saidyour enemiesinstead ofenemies. Like he’d almost included himself in that category, then thought better of it.
We spent the rest of the morning on precision exercises, and I became increasingly aware that Kaelren was watching every single one. Not from the edge of the training ground like the others, but close. Circling. Observing from different angles like he was cataloging my weaknesses—or maybe my strengths, I couldn’t tell.
Each exercise pushed my control. The marks at my collarbones grew warmer, pulsing with increased intensity, but thankfully not spreading further. Whatwasspreading was my awareness of him. The way he moved, silent as shadow. The tension in his shoulders that suggested pain he was ignoring. The moments when our marks pulsed in sync and his eyes would snap to mine before he looked away, jaw tight.
I tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on the Sage’s instructions, on the flowers I was coaxing into existence, on literally anything except the fact that I could sense exactly where he was even when I wasn’t looking at him.
That damned connection the Sage kept mentioning. Whether we wanted it or not.
“Stop thinking about him,” Peeble whispered from my shoulder. “Your flowers are getting spiky.”
I looked down. The beetle was right—the latest bloom had grown thorns.
“I wasn’t thinking about him,” I lied.
“Your subconscious disagrees.”
Across the training ground, Kaelren’s carved marks flared silver-black for just a moment, and I knew—knew—he’d felt whatever that was. Our eyes met. His expression was closed, cold, but something flickered behind it before his walls slammed back up.
“That’s enough,” the Sage announced at midday, their timing either impeccable or intentional. “You need rest.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
I looked down at my hands. They were trembling, and there were thingreen lines running through my fingernails like veins in leaves.
“That’s new,” I said, trying to sound casual about becoming part plant.
“Your body is adapting,” Eltrien said, approaching with his healing supplies. “May I?”
I nodded, and he examined my hands with clinical efficiency.
“Three days since the first threshold and you’re already this far along,’ Eltrien murmured, examining the green lines. ‘The transformation isn’t just accelerating—it’s compounding. Your blood is changing composition.”
“Into what?”
“Something between human and plant. A bridge.”
Kaelren made a disgusted sound and stalked away.
“What’s his problem?” I asked.
“You’re becoming what he can’t,” Sarnyx said bluntly. “The marks chose you. His were carved. You’re evolution. He’s just dying slowly.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Truth often is.”
I wanted to argue, but exhaustion was hitting hard. The precision exercises had drained me more than yesterday’s power displays.
“Rest,” the Sage said. “This afternoon, we’ll work on communication.”
