“Now stop,” Valen says.
I blink at him, my breath sharp. “Stop?”
The wind doesn’t just stop. It doesn’t still itself the way earth does. It doesn’t vanish the way fire burns out. It doesn’t settle like water after a storm. I don’t know how to stop something I barely know how to control.
Valen stays calm. “Pull it back. Let it go.”
I clench my fists. “That doesn’t mean anything!”
He doesn’t flinch. “Then listen carefully. Stopping power is the same as wielding it. You do not fight it, you guide it. The same way you turn off a faucet when the water runs, or close a door when the wind pushes through. The energy does not vanish—you simply cut off the flow.”
I swallow, my chest tight, the wind still thrumming around me.Cut off the flow.
I try to picture it—a golden stream of water, endless and strong. If I push against it, it keeps moving, flooding outward.
But if I turn the faucet, I close it. I let the flow stop. I exhale sharply, focusing, envisioning the movement, the pull, the moment of stillness. And then, I turn it off.
The wind slows, the swirling leaves drop. The rush of energyebbs, slipping away like a tide pulling back into the ocean.
The field grows still. The whirlwind is gone. I stare at the empty space where it had been, my pulse still pounding.
Valen nods once. “Good. Again.”
That afternoon, the training room is quiet, the stillness almost unnatural after a morning spent fighting against the wind. My muscles ache, my body heavier after my session with Valen. But there’s no room for exhaustion.
I step onto the mat, my breath even, my mind bracing for what’s to come. Thane stands at the center, his stance relaxed, his hands resting loosely at his sides.
Before we begin, he asks, “How are you feeling after yesterday?”
I blink, caught off guard. It’s not the question itself, it’s the way he asks it. His tone is neutral, steady as always, but there’s something else there. A flicker of something in his eyes, quick, almost imperceptible. Concern?
I shift, rolling out my shoulders, shaking the soreness from my limbs. “I’m fine.”
Thane studies me a second longer—like he’s weighing the truth behind the words. Then—just like that—the moment passes.
“Good.” He steps back into position. “Because today, you’re going to learn how to take a hit.”
He doesn’t wait. He lifts one hand and murmurs something under his breath. A subtle ripple spreads through the air.
I tense, my fingers flexing at my sides as my skin prickles with the familiar pulse of magics. The enchantment settles over me—not heavy like the pressure of water, not crackling like fire, not grounding like earth. It’s light, thin as a whisper, wrappingaround me like the wind before a storm.
I glance down at my hands, at the faint shimmer now coating my knuckles. The same glow traces over Thane’s fists before fading.
This won’t last forever. For now, I can take a hit without much consequence. Soon, I’ll have to learn how to fight through the pain.
I push the thought aside, flexing my fingers.
Thane tilts his head. “Ready?”
I set my stance, clenching my fists, planting my feet. “Yeah.” I don’t let myself hesitate.
“Good,” he says.
Thane moves before I can blink. One moment he’s standing still, and the next—he’s on me. Fast. Precise. Fluid like wind, sharp like a blade.
His body barely makes a sound, his strikes coming in quick, controlled bursts. No wasted motion. No unnecessary force. His footwork is effortless, each step perfectly placed, shifting his weight seamlessly between attacks. He doesn’t lunge or overextend—he flows.
I barely have time to react before his first strike connects with my guard. A sharp pressure—his palm hitting my forearm, testing my stance. I absorb it, try to counter, but he’s already moved. He pivots smoothly, ducking around my reaction, striking low, his foot sweeping toward my ankle.
