7. Rakk #2
"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 dwelling sits 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.
"Nothing," I finally say. "Just... stress. Dad's pushing the mate issue again."
It's not entirely a lie. Dad is pushing. The stress is real. Just not the actual source of my magical instability.
Zurkar studies me for a long moment, clearly unconvinced. But he doesn't press. Just nods slowly.
"Be careful," he warns. "Whatever is happening, it's affecting you more than you're admitting. And unchecked magical development in someone with your abilities..." He shakes his head. "It doesn't end well."
The warning follows me out of his chambers and through the settlement. Doesn't end well. Like I don't already know that. Like I haven't spent years understanding exactly how dangerous my magic could be if I lose control.
But despite the warning, despite the very real risk Zurkar identified, I still find myself heading toward the river as evening falls.
Still drawn by that relentless pull, that need to see her, to be near her even when every logical part of my brain screams that I should distance myself before this gets worse.
She's already there when I arrive. Sitting on our boulder—when did I start thinking of it as ours?
—boots off, feet dangling in the current.
Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders instead of braided back, and she's humming something under her breath.
Some melody I don't recognize but that lodges immediately in my memory.
She glances up when she hears me approach, and something in her expression shifts. Softens, maybe. Or relaxes. Like my presence has become familiar instead of threatening.
"You're early," she observes.
I settle beside her, leaving careful space between us. "So are you."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Same."
We fall into comfortable silence, watching water flow past in endless motion. The moon is full tonight, turning everything silver-bright. Her profile is sharp against that light—straight nose, full lips, the slight crookedness from an old break that makes her features more interesting than perfect.
Beautiful. She's beautiful and I'm staring like an idiot.
"So," I say, forcing words past the tightness in my throat. "Learn anything interesting in the healing chambers today?"
She snorts. "Learned that Lola thinks I should help with the herb garden maintenance. Something about 'therapeutic value.'"
"Is it therapeutic?"
"It's dirt." But there's humor in her voice, that dry sarcasm I've learned to recognize as her version of playfulness. "Lots and lots of dirt."
"Sounds deeply meaningful."
"Life-changing," she agrees solemnly. Then, after a pause: "Actually wasn't terrible. Kind of nice to just... exist. Do something normal."
The admission feels significant. Like she's acknowledging that maybe, possibly, she's starting to feel less trapped here. Less like a prisoner waiting for the next terrible thing.
I want to build on that. Want to keep pushing her toward comfort and safety and something resembling peace. So I do what's been working—let more of my natural personality out, the humor and playfulness I've been carefully rationing.
"You know what else is therapeutic?" I ask.
She eyes me suspiciously. "What?"
"Watching me train." I flex dramatically, making the muscles in my arms bunch. "Very inspiring. Good for morale."
"Oh gods," she mutters, but she's fighting a smile. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"The flexing thing. The ridiculous showing off thing."
"It's not showing off if it's educational," I insist. "I'm teaching you proper warrior technique through demonstration."
"You're teaching me nothing except that you're incredibly full of yourself."
"Full of myself and incredibly strong," I correct. "Don't forget strong."
"I'm not forgetting because you won't let me forget." But her mouth is curving upward now, that smile breaking through despite her best efforts to maintain severity.
Victory surges through my chest, warm and addictive. I want more of that. Want to keep pulling laughter from her until it's easy instead of hard-won.
So I keep going, teasing and joking and letting my personality fill the space between us. And slowly, gradually, she responds. Sharp comments becoming actual banter. Reluctant smiles becoming genuine laughter that hits me like lightning.
Each laugh lodges beneath my ribs like a blade—painful and perfect and utterly consuming.
This is dangerous. I know it's dangerous. Zurkar's warning echoes through my mind, mixing with Dad's pressure and my own growing awareness that I'm losing control of something that should terrify me.
But when Serah laughs at some ridiculous comment I make, when she teases me back with that dry wit, when she looks at me like maybe I'm not just another threat to survive—
I can't make myself care about danger.
Can't make myself walk away.
Can only sit beside her while moonlight turns everything silver and my magic reaches toward her like I'm drowning and she's air itself.