Dad stares at me for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he exhales slowly, some of the tension bleeding from his massive shoulders.
"Three weeks," he says finally. "The Stone Fang delegation. You'll at least speak with her. Show respect to their clan even if you don't choose to pursue anything further."
It's a compromise. More than I deserve, probably, given how long I've been dodging this conversation. But it still tastes like failure in my mouth.
"Fine," I agree quietly.
He nods once, sharp and dismissive, then moves past me down the path. I watch him go, that familiar weight settling across my shoulders—the pressure of expectations I can't meet and responsibilities I'm terrified of accepting.
Then I shake it off and head toward Zurkar's chambers instead of my own. Because if I'm going to survive the next three weeks without doing something catastrophic, I need help controlling magic that seems determined to spiral out of my grasp.
Zurkar's dwellingsits on the northern edge of settlement, carved deep into canyon rock. The interior is cluttered with herbs and crystals and equipment I don't fully understand, all organized in patterns that probably make sense to someone with shamanic training. Incense smoke curls through the air, thick and cloying, making my eyes water.
The shaman himself kneels near a low table, grinding something in a stone mortar. He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Wondered when you'd come," he says mildly.
I close the door behind me, securing the privacy wards we installed years ago when these secret lessons started. "Could sense me coming?"
"No. Just know you." He sets the mortar aside, rising fluidly despite his age. Violet eyes study me with uncomfortable intensity. "Your magic is restless."
Not a question. Statement of observed fact.
I grimace. "Yeah."
"Show me."
We move through familiar exercises—grounding techniques, energy manipulation, the careful discipline of drawing power without letting it consume me. Zurkar watches everything with that penetrating gaze, occasionally adjusting my stance or breathing pattern, mostly just observing.
Twenty minutes in, he stops me.
"Something has changed," he says flatly.
My heart kicks against my ribs. "What do you mean?"
"Your magic. It's..." He circles me slowly, expression troubled. "Reaching. Pulling toward something outside yourself. That's not normal development, Rakk. That's dangerous."
The accurate assessment hits too close. I force my expression neutral, carefully controlled. "I'm handling it."
"Are you?" Zurkar stops in front of me, violet eyes boring into mine. "Because what I'm sensing suggests the opposite. Suggests your abilities are developing in ways we haven't prepared for. In ways that could spiral beyond your control if we're not careful."
My jaw tightens. He's right and I know it. The pull toward Serah has been getting stronger, not weaker. That connection my magic forged the first time I touched her hasn't faded despite weeks of careful distance. If anything, it's intensified. Deepened. Until I can barely function without knowing where she is and whether she's safe.
But admitting that means explaining about Serah. Means revealing how thoroughly I've compromised my own carefully maintained boundaries. Means accepting that I might need intervention I'm not ready to consider.
"I'm fine," I lie.
Zurkar's expression suggests he doesn't believe me for a second. "If your magic continues developing unchecked, we may need to consider binding."
The word hits like a physical blow. Binding. Sealing away my abilities entirely, cutting me off from the magic that's been part of me since childhood. It's an extreme measure, used only when someone poses danger to themselves or others. The kind of thing shamans do as last resort.
"That's not necessary," I argue, trying to keep panic from my voice.
"Not yet," Zurkar agrees. "But if things continue escalating..." He trails off meaningfully. "I need you to be honest with me, Rakk. What's causing this change? What are you connecting to?"
I should tell him. Should explain about Serah and the bond forming whether I want it or not. Should trust the person who's helped me control these abilities for years.
But the words stick in my throat. Because saying it out loud makes it real. Makes it something that requires action instead of something I can keep pretending might resolve itself.
