She jumped. Death, Cyrus. You can’t just…
Combat hall. Now. I was already walking.
Behind me, I heard her frustrated sigh followed by footsteps.
Good.
The combat hall was empty. Private.
Hit something, I said, gesturing to the practice dummy. It helps.
I’m not a combat witch.
Everyone needs to release tension. I moved behind her, guiding her hands into proper stance. Basic fire evocation. Nothing complicated. Just let it out.
Her magic sparked uncertainly, necromancy mixing with borrowed fire and flickering blue at the edges.
That’s it, I said quietly. My hands adjusted her shoulders and her hips, getting her aligned. Focus on what’s stressing you. All that weight. Push it into the flame.
She tried. The fire guttered.
Again.
Cyrus…
Again.
This time, flame actually hit the dummy—small, barely scorching, but there.
We worked for twenty minutes, her form improving and flames getting stronger. Not because she was becoming a combat witch, that would never be her strength, but because she was learning to release instead of just holding.
To trust that letting go didn’t mean losing control.
When she finally stopped, breathing hard, some of the tension had left her shoulders.
Why? she asked, turning toward me.
Because you carry everything alone. The truth came easily. Your father’s legacy. Your friends’ safety. This whole war. You need to release some of it.
You recognize that because you do it too.
Yeah. I pulled her down to sit on the training mat. Been carrying the weight of being first heir since I was old enough to understand what that meant. Perfect weapon. Perfect soldier. Never weak.
Ember settled nearby, his patient flames casting warm light.
My father raised me to be a weapon because weapons don’t feel loss the way people do. He taught me control was everything. That caring made you vulnerable.
You’re not a weapon. Her voice cut through my self-perception. You’re a person with very destructive magical abilities. There’s a difference.
Despite everything, I laughed, genuinely. When you put it that way…
I’m serious. Her hand found mine. You’re kind when you think no one’s watching. Patient with students. That’s not a weapon. That’s a good man trying to be better.
Something cracked in my chest. The wall I’d maintained since childhood—since my father taught me caring was weakness—was finally breaking.
I pulled her closer. Her head settled on my shoulder. My arm wrapped around her, holding without crushing. Heat radiated between us, keeping her warm.
Her breath slowed against my collarbone in comfortable silence.
