Chapter Thirteen
“ Y ou look terrible,” Gray says to me as we break from our training for water.
The afternoon sun is high in the western sky, shimmering and pulsing with astounding brightness. I pour some water into my hand and splash it onto my sweat-slicked neck. “The exact words every girl dreams of hearing,” I mutter back, the dryness in my tone thick and glaring.
Gray laughs, folding his arms across his chest. “What I mean is you look like you didn’t sleep at all last night.”
“I didn’t.” I fiddle with my waterskin, lifting it into the air and inspecting the remaining liquid.
“Why not? I’ve seen you sleep in far more uncomfortable places. For example, atop that gravel roof you adore so much.”
I shoot him a pointed look.
He raises his brows in silent challenge.
My eyes go for a spin, and I sigh. “I…heard something last night.”
He pulls at his brows. “What do you mean, something ?”
I lazily shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. Something that smelled like rotting flesh and howled like a large wolf. Something that felt…cold.”
Gray is silent for a moment. “Well, let’s thank the Mother it didn’t come into the cave.”
“Yet,” I mumble under my breath.
He clicks his tongue at me before strolling over to the large rock I’ve been using as a seat, bracing his hands on each side of me, boxing me in.
He levels me with a challenging stare, and his voice is deceptively calm when he muses, “You have ten seconds to assume your fighting stance before I throw you into that river.”
I arch a brow. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Gray doesn’t throw me into the river.
He does, however, make me continue throwing punches into the air until my shoulders ache for mercy.
Today’s training consisted of reviewing my defensive moves bright and early, Gray quickening the pace of our simulations to a more realistic speed.
Then, after a lunch consisting of dried jerky and nuts, I learned where to keep my feet and where to hold my hands; the importance of rotating my foot outward at a slight angle for balance and allowing my body to flow like the river I train beside.
He showed me the basics of throwing a punch and blocking one in return.
All the foundational pieces I will need to survive.
And then we trekked on through the valley, continuing towards Bathara.
Now, after marching through the valley for miles—the sun beginning to hum goodbye, stealing the light of day with it as it goes—Gray and I sit criss-crossed in a field of overgrown grass and weeds, a decorum of white and yellow flowers sprinkling through.
“Tell me everything you know about magic.” He faces me head-on, our knees touching each other as we talk.
I blow out a breath, puffing my cheeks. “Let me think…” My fingers glide across my lips as I attempt to recount what little knowledge I have.
“First, there are the basics most everyone knows. Wielders are only capable of wielding one type of magic, and it is whatever magic manifests within them. A wielder’s mark denotes their magic type, and a person can’t officially be categorized with a specific magic until the mark appears.
” I pause. “Though, to be honest, I’ve never understood why a ce rtain wielder manifests a particular type of magic over another. ”
Gray leans back, supporting his weight with his outstretched hands.
“Your guess is as good as any. Some believe it to be a matter of destiny or fate. Others believe it’s determined by the gods themselves.
But most scholars nowadays theorize that it's embedded into our genetics—a trait in the blood or heritage of the wielder that feeds the magic. Hence the powerful bloodlines. The ideas are endless, but the answers are scarce.” He tilts his head at me. “What else?”
I suck in another bout of air. “I’m aware a person’s lakt? is what gives a wielder their ability to harness the properties of magic, but my understanding of it is rather…limited. All I know is the lakt? in our veins is attuned to our magic types, and without it, we would be unable to wield.”
“Do you know how lakt? works?”
I snort a dry laugh. “Not even a little bit.”
Gray nods, shifting his weight forward. He tucks his knees into his chest, leaning toward me. “It’s a good start, what you know.”
“I have the magical knowledge of a child,” I flatly retort.
He chuckles softly, but shakes his head. “Having any sort of knowledge is better than no sort of knowledge at all.”
“Spoken like a true Nightenjoy,” I mutter.
His lips kick up with a small smile as he continues. “Lakt? does indeed allow us to wield. Put as simply as possible, it is attuned to your magic’s capabilities—like a sort of frequency. But it is a finite resource, and it can be drained.”
“Does that mean every wielder’s lakt? is different?”
Gray considers my question. “Yes, I would say it mostly is. Though the governing principles are largely the same. Think of it like…wine.”
My nose scrunches. “Wine?” I ask, humor coating the word. “Really?”
“Actually, yes. Wines differ in their potencies and abilities to get you drunk, right?”
I lift a brow, still not entirely convinced this is about to make sense. “Yes,” I answer, my hesitation obvious.
“Well, the same is true for lakt?. Think of it like sipping nobility’s expensive Sparkling Ecstasy versus a commoner’s house wine.
Because one is of better quality, it will get you drunk faster with less consumption.
It may seem strange, but that is similar to using lakt?.
Though the resource may be finite, when you train it, the strength and quality of it becomes greater, making you a more powerful wielder. ”
“Is that why some wielders are more powerful than others? Because they have more lakt? than another?”
He blows out a breath, raking his hand through his unbound hair.
“Not exactly. It’s like…” Gray pauses, pinching his chin between his fingers as he thinks.
“Okay—think of the jug containing the wine. Your body is the jug, and, as we’ve established, lakt? is the wine.
The jug has a set capacity for the amount of wine it can contain, right?
And no matter how many times the jug is drained empty or replenished to be full, its capacity for the amount it can hold will always remain the same. Are you following?”
Maybe? Kind of? A little bit?
“Yes,” I reply, instead.
“Good. See, having more lakt? than another certainly gives the wielder a considerable advantage. The sheer volume of magic they can wield at a time would be greater than someone with less lakt?. But all of it means nothing without training.”
“Right,” I drawl with hollow confidence. “Because training…”
Gray lifts his brows and leans in with anticipation, waiting for me to finish my sentence.
I don’t.
After a quiet laugh, Gray finishes for me, “Because training will allow you to not rely solely on the amount of lakt? you contain, because it will increase its potency , allowing you to get more for less. In doing so, you not only lessen your chances of draining all your resources, but you will also have more control over your magic as well.”
I sit in silence for a moment, taking it all in. “Alright,” I declare after a long bout of thought. “I think I’m following.”
“Don’t worry,” Gray assures me with a soothing smile.
“You’ll learn a lot more as you progress.
Learning the basics always seems the most daunting because it’s like setting the foundations for learning the old language—nonsensical and confusing.
But—” he braces his hands on his thighs and rises “—the best way to learn is through application.” He stretches his hand out to me.
I stare at it as if it were coated in poison, resulting in Gray’s smile quickly falling into a frown.
And I’m not sure what to say to him. Not sure how to convey the turmoil turning inside of me, sitting like lead on my tongue.
How does one explain that they fear attempting the very thing that might save their life because, if they realize they are incapable of doing it, then at least living in ignorant bliss for a while is a hell of a lot better than drowning in a burning sea of anxiety and loathing.
How do I look Gray in the face—the person who has always said I was bright like the sun and gazed upon me like he meant it—that I fear failure to a crippling degree, and it will be the stormy rain cloud to hide my shine?
As if hearing my thoughts, Gray squats down beside me. “You have nothing to fear, Lyra.” He says it with such a tender voice, I wonder if every person is privileged to experience such a softness. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
My breath hitches in my chest before finding its release. I slip my hand into his, and he helps me rise.
Just as he has done so many other times before.
“Before you can access your magic at will, you need to understand it.”
Gray paces in front of the glistening riverbed, his hands clasped behind his back.
The moon has begun peeking over the horizon, and the evening air spreads thin. There is a gentle breeze blowing through the valley tonight, and it is a comfort against my skin as I listen to him speak.
“You must become familiar and intimate with its touch—with its unique feeling, sometimes referred to as its essence.” Gray halts in front of me and opens his palms to the sky.
He makes a silver comet appear between them, flames of ice and fire forming at its tail, and the comet circles around its own star-flecked patch of darkness.
With the last shred of light remaining—and because Gray has rolled up the sleeves of his tunic—I can see his wielder’s mark on his forearm: an eye enclosed in a circle of precise black lines, with four small dots descending to meet a slithering snake. It glows with golden light.