Chapter 7 #4
The next morning started with Valen and another Elemental power.
The air is cool and damp, the scent of wet earth clinging to the training grounds. My muscles ache from yesterday’s sessions with Valen and Thane. I stand beside mage, facing the small lake at the edge of the clearing.
“Today, we focus on Water,” he says. His tone is steady, instructive, but I don’t miss the way his gaze lingers on me, studying, measuring.
I nod, flexing my fingers. Water. Fluid. Adaptable.
It had nearly drowned me before.
“Water is not something you force,” Valen begins. “It is not solid like Earth, nor does it demand like Fire. It does not move freely like Air. It moves where it chooses—your job is to move with it.”
I take a slow breath, nodding, trying to clear my mind, to feel the element as I had with Earth.
“Close your eyes,” he instructs. “Listen.”
I obey. The world narrows. I hear the distant lapping of water against the shore. The faint ripple of movement beneath the surface. The cool mist hanging in the air, settling against my skin.
I reach.
Nothing.
The silence stretches, taut and expectant. I frown, trying harder, my fingers curling at my sides. Still nothing. I exhale, sharp and frustrated.
“You’re forcing it,” Valen says. “You don’t move Water, Amara. You let it move you.”
I huff out in frustration.
I’m not forcing it.
But I am.
I slow my breathing and extend my awareness. A flicker of something brushes against my mind. A shift. A pull.
My pulse jumps. The water ripples—and then stills, slipping through my grasp like sand through fingers.
I inhale sharply, clenching my fists. “I had it!”
Valen watches, unmoved. “Then where did it go?”
I scowl, shaking out my arms before focusing again.
Move with it. Not against it. But how?
Earth is tangible. I can feel it beneath my feet. I can hold a stone in my hands, let dirt sift through my fingers. Even when it moves, it is always there. Solid. Reliable.
Water is none of those things. How do you grasp something that refuses to be held?
I try again and again. Each time, I feel it—just a flicker. A whisper. Each time, it slips away.
“Dammit,” I mutter, exhaling hard. My muscles tense, my jaw tight.
Earth had come to me easily. This is something else.
“What are you holding onto that won’t let you float?” Valen asks quietly.
Gods.
What am I not holding onto?
My parents. Doubt. Fear that I’ll fail them. That I’ll fail everyone. That I already am.
“You’re treating it like stone,” Valen says, stepping beside me. “Like something you can hold, something that will stay in place.”
I press my lips together. “That’s all I’ve ever known.”
He nods once. “And that is why this will take time.”
I exhale, frustration brimming. “And if we don’t have time?”
Valen’s gaze doesn’t shift. “Then you learn faster.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, focusing once more.
Water moves. Always.
The great rivers of the Water Clan’s domain carve through canyons, moving with unshakable patience. The tides that border the southern coasts rise and fall with the pull of the moon, predictable yet unstoppable. The lakes that dot the mountain ranges shift with the wind, restless but alive.
It never stops. It never waits. It doesn’t want to be commanded.
But it might be willing to listen.
I let go. And I reach—not for control. For connection.
A shift. A pull. Not strong. Not solid. But present. Water is answering.
I exhale slowly, and this time, I follow its pull. The lake stirs, a small section of water rising from the surface.
I can feel the weight of it. The tension. The way it wants to fall.
But it doesn’t.
It stays.
I feel its weight, its movement, its natural inclination to fall back toward the lake—but I hold it. I shift my hand, and the water responds. It twists between my fingers, a ribbon of motion.
I let it move, let it flow where it wants—but I guide it. For the first time, I’m not chasing after the element. I’m moving with it.
A small smile tugs at the edge of my lips.
Valen watches, his expression unreadable. “Good,” he says. “Again.” He tilts his chin toward the lake. “Hold more this time. Half the lake. Shape it into a form.”
I blink. “Half?”
He doesn’t elaborate. I inhale deeply and reach.
The response is immediate. The pull is deeper. Stronger. The lake surges. Water rises in a massive wave, the pressure hitting me like a wall. I grit my teeth, trying to contain it, shape it, but it’s too much. It’s heavy. Crushing.
The force of it bears down on my chest, pressing against my ribs, weighing down my limbs.
I’m standing on land, but it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m at the bottom of the lake, the water closing in around me, swallowing me whole. Sweat beads along my brow.
The shape I was forming begins to waver, tremble. The water wants to collapse, to fall back to where it belongs.
“Breathe,” Valen says, stepping closer. His voice is calm, steady, but it cuts through the pressure pressing into me. “Stop trying to control it.”
I bare my teeth, my arms shaking from the strain. “It’s—too heavy.” My voice is tight, strained. “I feel it pressing down on me. It’s crushing.”
Valen doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften.
“You’re fighting it again,” he says simply. “Let it move with you—not against.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath ragged.
Move with it. Not grip it. Not hold it. Just . . . move.
My arms tremble, the weight sinking into my bones.
Valen remains still. His voice, the same.
“Water is never still, Amara. It does not crush—it surrounds. It does not resist—it shifts. Adapt to it, and it will hold itself.”
The words settle quietly beneath my ribs.
And I let go.
I stop trying to anchor it. Stop trying to drag it into stillness. Instead, I move with it, like a dance, my hands flow with the current. The weight doesn’t vanish, but it does change.
It listens.
The water shifts, rolling in smooth waves rather than trembling under my control. I shift my hands and the water obeys, twisting into a flowing current, shaping itself into a coiling arc above the lake.
For the first time, I’m not drowning beneath the Element. I’m inside it. A part of it.
Valen nods once. “Good,” he says. “Again.”
The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the stone floor as I step back into the training room. The scent of oiled steel and sweat clings to the air, the walls lined with weapons, the sparring mat empty, waiting.
Thane stands in the center, arms crossed, watching as I enter. “You’re late,” he says, but there’s no real bite to it.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the soreness from this morning’s session with Valen. “I was training. With Water.”
His eyes flick over me, unreadable. “And now you’re training with me.”
I sigh, stepping onto the mat, my muscles protesting every movement. “What are we doing today?”
Thane uncrosses his arms. “Your stance is weak.”
I bristle. “Excuse me?”
“You rely too much on movement. Your footwork keeps you from getting hit, but when you throw a punch, there’s no strength behind it. You aren’t grounded.”
I exhale sharply, my patience already fraying at the edges. “Maybe because I’m not built like a damn fortress.”
Thane just raises an eyebrow. “Which is why you need to learn how to hit properly.”
I clamp my jaw shut.
He gestures toward the center. “Square up.”
I plant my feet, raising my fists.
Thane circles me, silent and assessing. “You’re too rigid,” he says behind me. “You want stability—but you’re locking yourself in place. Strength comes from balance, not stiffness.”
He taps the side of my back foot with his boot. “Wider. If your base isn’t solid, your punch is worthless.”
I shift, adjusting. Feeling the weight settle lower in my body, like the ground catching me.
Thane steps in front of me again and without warning, presses his palm against my shoulder and shoves. I stumble back, catching myself before I fall.
He tilts his head. “Exactly.”
I grind my teeth. Of course, he had to prove his point like that.
“Again,” Thane says.
I reset, adjusting my footing, anticipating this time. Thane shoves my shoulder again and this time, I don’t move.
He nods. “Better. Now your punches have a chance to actually matter.”
I exhale, rolling my shoulders. “So what, we just fix my stance all day?”
Thane smirks. “No. Now we learn how to hit.” He pulls a roll of rough linen from his belt and gestures for my hands.
I hesitate, then extend one toward him. “I know how to make a fist.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Not well enough.”
I bite back a retort as he takes my hand and starts wrapping. His movements are practiced, efficient, the linen rough but secure as he coils it over my knuckles first, layering the fabric snugly but not too tight.
“Knuckles first,” he says. “This takes the most impact. If you hit wrong, this is where you’ll split your skin first.”
He loops the wrap over the back of my hand, then around my wrist. His fingers brush against mine, calloused but precise, working quickly.
“Wrist next,” he continues. “If it’s not supported, you’ll break it the first time you throw a punch with real force.”
The wrap winds around my palm, back over my knuckles again, then down to my wrist once more, creating tension that locks everything in place.
He tugs once, testing the tension, then ties it off. “Too tight?”
I flex my fingers, curling them into a fist. The wrap holds, firm but flexible. “No. It’s good.”
He gestures for my other hand. I lift it without protest.
As he starts wrapping again, his voice is steady. “You’ll learn to do this yourself. Before every fight, every session. It won’t stop your bones from breaking, but it will keep you from tearing yourself apart.”
I swallow, watching the methodical rhythm of his hands, the way he moves with purpose.
Thane finishes tying off the last loop of linen, securing the wrap around my wrist with precise, practiced efficiency.
He steps back, nodding once. “Now, you’re ready to hit something.”