I swallow hard, adjusting my stance. The polished handle feels cool against my palm.
Kaelzar watches me, his presence pressing at the edges of my focus as I step toward the patch of weeds.
A cluster of tall, wiry plants with serrated leaves stands among the wildflowers. I study them carefully, noting how close they are to the delicate blooms. Any misstep could destroy more than I intend.
“Just a little magic,” Kaelzar says, his voice calm but firm. “Focus it. Let it travel down the whip. Precise, controlled. Only the weed.”
I nod, though my throat tightens with doubt. Swinging the whip, I feel the leather snap against the air with a satisfying crack, but no magic flows.
The weed stands untouched, mocking me.
My magic stirs, a restless thing, writhing beneath my skin. I breathe in, slow and steady, letting it gather, then crack the whip.
Power surges. Too much.
The ground blackens at the edge of my strike. The flowers beside it tremble, the air thickening with the sickly scent of decay. I stagger back, my gut twisting with horrific images of what my magic can do again.
Kaelzar moves fast, stepping between me and the flowers. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just studies the damage.
“That,” he finally says, pointing at my mistake, “is what you’re afraid of. And until you stop flinching from it, it’s never going to work.”
The words sting, but my gaze flicks to the flowers still standing near the blackened soil. What if I lose control again? What if the decay spreads beyond my intent, unraveling everything in its path? My breath falters. I can’t risk it.
The whip dips toward the ground as I lower my hands, the tightening in my chest making it impossible to argue.
Kaelzar’s voice cuts through the storm of my thoughts. “Not today, then. You’re still holding back.”
“I’m not—” I start, but the lie catches in my throat.
“You are,” he says. “You’re afraid of it. Afraid of yourself. That’s why it won’t work.”
My jaw clenches, but I refuse to meet his eyes.
He watches me for a beat longer, then turns away. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
I want to argue. To prove him wrong. But all I do is follow him in silence.
On the second day, I try again.
I focus on a single weed in the cluster. My swings are precise, my control sharp, but my magic remains elusive. My fingers ache from gripping too tightly, the handle slick with sweat, but I refuse to loosenmy hold, fearing if I let go, even for a second, I might never pick it up again.
Until Kaelzar coaxes me into letting go with the promise of a delicious dinner.
By the third day, I feel the faintest tingle at the edge of my awareness, a ripple of decay teasing at my fingertips but never reaching the whip.
Kaelzar stands nearby, silent and watchful. When I fumbled my grip on the whip, his hand twitched at his side, like he meant to intervene, but instead, he turned away, rolling his shoulders as if shrugging off an unseen weight.
The days blur together, each one spent in the field as I swing the whip over and over, my movements growing steadier even as my magic refuses to cooperate. Every failure grates, feeding a restless frustration as the pressure inside builds. I can feel it, Calista’s power swelling through me, stronger each day, as more voices pray to her name.
My arms burn from the endless repetition and my muscles scream each time I lift the whip again. But while I still struggle with the control of my magic, I get quite good with wielding my whip as a weapon.
Eva comes often, usually with a basket of food and a bright smile that seems to ease even my darkest moods. She stays to watch, her easy chatter filling the awkward moments of quiet between Kaelzar and me.
But Peonica’s absence makes me worry, she hasn’t come to visit in days. Most likely, she’s also busy with taking care of the cursed women, maybe with an influx of new arrivals that need help settling, so I make a mental note to go to Rust Hollow as soon as I have a free moment to make sure she’s okay.
Each day, I arrive at the field and push myself harder, determined to master the whip. But it is only on the sixth day that I feel something shift.
I feel it before I even pick up the whip, a faint clarity in the air. I swing with confidence, the leather cutting through the breeze like a blade. This time, the decay sparks to life. It flows down the length of the whip, subtle but undeniable.
