THIRTY-FOUR
SECOND brEATH
Peace and stillness nourish more than the heart and soul; they strengthen the mind.
When we can tap into our own center of stillness, of peace, we uncover a wellspring of power within ourselves.
But finding that place takes practice. We train ourselves to find that stillness even as steel clashes around us and the storm answers our call.
When our lives and those of our companions hang by a thread.
When death stares at us, eager to claim us.
When panic threatens to consume us. Then, especially then, if we know how to find that stillness, that peace within our souls, we can draw upon a power far greater than our fear.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Valen says I need to learn stillness. Not control, or focus, or even restraint.
Stillness.
He says it’s the only way I’ll be able to channel through Calryx without burning us both out. That if I don’t learn to separate my emotions from my magics, it won’t matter how powerful I am.
I’ll be a threat to her. To myself. To everyone around me.
It’s not what I expected to hear. I thought training meant more movement. More force. More pushing until something gave way.
But Valen doesn’t want me to push.
He wants me to pause.
We’re sitting on a narrow ledge that overlooks the training grounds.
Morning light spills across the stone below, soft and golden.
The air is already warm, hinting at the heat to come later in the day, and there’s a quiet stillness in the trees that feels too deliberate.
Everything about this moment should feel centering.
But I’m restless.
My thoughts keep drifting to what’s coming tonight.
The Ashen Ring.
A ceremonial amphitheater carved into the volcanic stone cliffs outside the capital fortress, where the memorial service will be held. It’s been nearly a week since the attack at the ball, and we are finally gathering to mourn as a community.
My stomach twists at the thought. I don’t have time for stillness, not when everything inside me feels like it’s gathering momentum.
I shift again, jaw tight.
“How is sitting here supposed to make me stronger?”
He doesn’t respond right away.
Typical.
Valen has never been in a rush to explain himself, especially when he knows I’m already agitated. He simply watches me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Then the corner of his mouth lifts. The wind brushes through his silver-streaked hair as though it has been waiting for its cue.
“Because power isn’t only about what you release,” he says. “It’s about what you contain.”
I cross my arms. “That sounds like something the Water Clan would say.”
There’s a flicker in his expression. Amusement, perhaps.
“You think I don’t know their ways?” he asks, voice light but threaded with certainty.
“I’ve meditated beneath the frozen waterfalls of the Northern Reach.
Sat in the heart of the Earth Clan’s deep caverns where the silence hums against your bones.
You want to talk about stillness? I’ve lived it in places where it’s the only thing keeping your mind from unraveling. ”
He turns back toward the training grounds.
“I may be Air Clan by birth, but I’ve learned from them all.”
I study him, skeptical. “Then prove it.”
He doesn’t argue. He simply closes his eyes and exhales.
And suddenly, he’s gone.
Not in body. He’s still sitting beside me, legs folded, hands resting on his knees. But the presence I’ve grown used to, the low hum of Elemental energy that always surrounds him, subtle but constant, vanishes. Like someone snuffed it out mid-breath.
Even Calryx reacts. Her wings twitch where she perches a short distance away, her attention snapping toward us. She felt it too.
I stare at him, unsettled. The stillness isn’t just around him.
It’s inside him.
As though every thought, every emotion, every trace of power has folded inward and disappeared into a place I cannot reach.
I swallow, the hairs on my arms rising. “What did you just do?”
When he opens his eyes, they’re steady and unshaken.
No smugness.
No theatrics.
Just calm.
Collected.
Entirely in control.
“I became still,” he says simply. “True stillness isn’t the absence of motion. It’s the mastery of it.”
“What is that?” I ask quietly. “That kind of stillness . . . is there a name for it?”
Valen’s gaze lingers on me, thoughtful. “The Water Clan calls it the Second Breath. It’s the moment after fear. After instinct. The space where you decide what happens next instead of letting your emotions decide for you.”
I stare at him.
That sounds impossible.
Valen watches me for a moment longer, then nods once.
“Close your eyes,” he instructs.
I hesitate. Just for a second. Then I do as he asks.
“Now breathe in. Deeply.”
I draw in air through my nose. My lungs stretch wide, almost uncomfortably so.
“Hold it,” he says. “Feel how it expands. How it presses outward, wanting to escape. But don’t let it. Not until you choose to.”
My chest begins to ache as the pressure builds, but I keep it in. Every part of me tightens around the need to release it.
“Now release,” Valen says. “Slowly.”
I let the air slip out, not all at once, but in a long, controlled stream. I feel it, not just in my lungs, but in the way my shoulders ease and the tension in my ribs unwinds. It’s subtle, but tangible.
“Feel that?” he asks. “That shift? Control your breath, and you control your body.”
I nod, eyes still closed.
“Again,” he says. “This time, hold your breath like you would hold your magics. Not with force. With intent.”
I inhale again, controlled this time, more aware of what’s happening inside me. The breath becomes more than just air—it’s energy, potential, held in place because I choose to hold it there.
Valen’s voice stays quiet but firm. “This is the first step of the Second Breath. Learning to hold power without acting on it. To stabilize it. To shape it before you ever release it.”
I exhale, steady and full. And I begin to understand.
We’ve barely finished the exercise when Valen rises and fixes me with a look that says I’m nowhere near done.
“On your feet.”
I stand, slower than usual, still feeling the weight of the breathwork in my limbs.
He doesn’t wait. He crouches, scoops up a small, smooth stone, and presses it into my palm.
Then, quietly: “Ignite.”
I do. A small flame blooms above my hand, no larger than a candle flame. It flickers once, then steadies, dancing just above my skin.
“Good,” he says. “Now keep it like that.”
I nod.
“And move.”
I blink at him. “Move where?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps back, folds his arms, and waits.
So I start to walk.
The first few steps are simple enough. I keep my palm upturned, careful, my gaze fixed on the flame hovering just above my skin.
It holds, but barely.
Normally, when I summon fire, I release it in the same breath. Fast. Furious. Like a feral scream that’s been waiting to be let loose. That’s what fire has always been to me: expression, instinct, fury.
But this is different.
Holding it here, quietly, without letting it lash out or consume, requires far more discipline than I expected. I can feel every shift in my balance, every breath threatening to disturb it. My body wants to move faster. My magics want to act. But I don’t let it.
And gods, that takes everything in me.
“Don’t watch the flame,” Valen says, reading me with infuriating ease. “Watch yourself. Your breath. Your body. The flame is only a mirror.”
I grit my teeth and take another step, this one less cautious.
The flame shivers.
He circles me.
“You need to carry it without letting it sputter out. That’s stillness in motion. Not frozen. Not rigid. Controlled.”
He gestures for me to keep going.
So I do. I walk. I turn. I pivot.
The flame flutters again, wavering at the edges. My pulse quickens.
“Now move through your fighting stances,” he says. “Slowly. Precisely.”
I shift into the first form Thane taught me: low sweep, pivot, rise.
The flame sputters.
I control my breathing and feel the connection between my feet and the earth beneath me.
The fire steadies.
Calryx shifts from foot to foot, a low huff escaping her snout. Her bright emerald eyes track me as I move through the fighting stances, each one etched into my body through months of repetition.
These forms are muscle memory now, as instinctive as breathing. But today, they feel different. Instead, every movement is wrapped around a single point of focus: keeping the flame lit.
“I can’t keep it perfect,” I mutter.
“Good,” Valen says. “Perfection isn’t the point. Stability is. You want to channel without being ruled. Can you feel the difference?”
I nod, even as the flame trembles with my movement. Sweat slips down my back. My arm aches. Every shift in weight ripples through the fire balanced above my palm.
But I keep going. Because now, I see what he’s doing.
This isn’t about the flame.
It’s about me.
I take another careful step, then drop into a low stance, the fire still hovering in my hand. The flame wavers but holds. I force my breathing to stay even, though every ounce of my concentration is fixed on the fire.
“Good,” Valen remarks.
His voice is calm, but I can hear he’s about to make another ask of me.
“Tell me about the night you first wielded all four Elements.”
I glance briefly at him in surprise. “What?”
“Speak it aloud. While you move. While you hold the flame.”
I almost laugh.
“You want me to talk and train?”
“No,” he says. “I want you to stay present while remembering the worst night of your life. And I want you to keep that flame burning while you do it.”
I stiffen. Heat rises to my chest—not from the flame, but from somewhere deeper.
“Why?”
“Because this is what balance actually looks like,” he responds. “It’s not about silence or peace. It’s about clarity under pressure. Stillness in the chaos.”
I grit my teeth.
My legs are already burning. My palm trembles. The flame flutters.
But I move. One step. Then another.