Chapter 8 #2
“Close your eyes,” he instructs. “Feel the air around you. It is already there. You do not need to summon it—only guide it.”
I hesitate for a moment, then obey.
The wind curls against my skin, brushes against my hair, whispers past my ears. It is everywhere, yet impossible to grasp. I reach—not with my hands, but with intention.
The breeze slips through me like mist, gone before I can find it.
I furrow my brow, trying harder. I push—try to pull the air toward me, to make it respond. Nothing.
I exhale sharply, shaking out my hands.
“You’re trying to force it,” Valen says. “Air does not yield to force. Try again.”
My feet plant as I inhale deeply. I try to move with the air this time, to feel its current, to let it flow around me rather than fight it.
A flicker of something brushes against me, a whisper of wind responding to my presence. But it’s too weak, too thin. The moment I try to hold it, it slips away, lost to the sky.
Frustration coils in my chest. I open my eyes, my fists clenching at my sides.
“I can’t get it to stay.”
“Because you are still trying to hold it,” Valen says evenly. “You cannot grip the wind, Amara. But you can guide it.”
I swallow, steadying my breathing. One more time.
Feel the wind as it is, not as I want it to be.
I listen. Let it move around me. Through me. And then—I shift with it. The air twists around my body. It brushes my skin. Lifts strands of hair. The breeze coils—curious, cautious. Not mine to command. But aware.
And for the first time, it feels like we’re not fighting. We’re listening to each other.
I open my hands, letting my fingers drift with the air, not against it.
Then it shifts.
The wind moves away from me, sweeping outward, catching the edges of Valen’s robes. The fabric ripples and stirs, the current twining around him, as if it recognizes him, too.
My breath hitches, but I don’t lose focus. I don’t force it to stay. I just let it move.
Valen nods. “Good,” he says. “Again.”
I inhale deeply, feeling the wind coil around me, playful, light. The air shifts, curling outward from my fingertips, swirling through the grass, lifting strands of my hair. It wants to move, and this time, I follow.
My wrist turns, tilting my fingers—and the wind spins out, stirring the grass, tugging at loose leaves. Dust rises, caught in the motion. A ribbon of air twists in front of me. Controlled. Alive.
I did that. I blink, my pulse spiking. It’s working.
The air hums around me, the current shifting in rhythm with my breath. The tiny vortex whirls higher, spinning in a tight column, a ribbon of wind that lifts and bends at my direction. The leaves dance within it, tumbling effortlessly, held within the current.
I glance at Valen, half-expecting him to look surprised, impressed. Something.
He just nods. “Good. Now, something bigger.”
I barely have time to process before he continues.
“Expand it,” he instructs. “Feel the movement, the pull. Stretch it wider. Stronger.”
I swallow. Reach.
The wind responds—fast. The small column widens, spins harder, dust kicking up in spirals. The air presses against me now, curling around my arms, pushing through the grass, bending it low.
This is different. Not playful. Powerful.
“Hold it,” Valen says.
I grit my teeth, the strain creeping into my muscles. My feet dig into the ground, my breath steady but sharp. The current tugs at my tunic, whips my hair across my face. The power thrums through me, restless, surging.
The whirlwind grows several more feet in expanse, the rush of air humming in my ears, pulling harder at the grass, the leaves, the dust. The wind wants to keep moving, wants to spiral faster, to spread wider.
“Now stop,” Valen says.
I blink at him, my breath sharp. “Stop?”
The wind doesn’t just stop. It doesn’t still itself the way earth does. It doesn’t vanish the way fire burns out. It doesn’t settle like water after a storm. I don’t know how to stop something I barely know how to control.
Valen stays calm. “Pull it back. Let it go.”
I clench my fists. “That doesn’t mean anything!”
He doesn’t flinch. “Then listen carefully. Stopping power is the same as wielding it. You do not fight it, you guide it. The same way you turn off a faucet when the water runs, or close a door when the wind pushes through. The energy does not vanish—you simply cut off the flow.”
I swallow, my chest tight, the wind still thrumming around me. Cut off the flow.
I try to picture it—a golden stream of water, endless and strong. If I push against it, it keeps moving, flooding outward.
But if I turn the faucet, I close it. I let the flow stop. I exhale sharply, focusing, envisioning the movement, the pull, the moment of stillness. And then, I turn it off.
The wind slows, the swirling leaves drop. The rush of energy ebbs, slipping away like a tide pulling back into the ocean.
The field grows still. The whirlwind is gone. I stare at the empty space where it had been, my pulse still pounding.
Valen nods once. “Good. Again.”
That afternoon, the training room is quiet, the stillness almost unnatural after a morning spent fighting against the wind. My muscles ache, my body heavier after my session with Valen. But there’s no room for exhaustion.
I step onto the mat, my breath even, my mind bracing for what’s to come. Thane stands at the center, his stance relaxed, his hands resting loosely at his sides.
Before we begin, he asks, “How are you feeling after yesterday?”
I blink, caught off guard. It’s not the question itself, it’s the way he asks it. His tone is neutral, steady as always, but there’s something else there. A flicker of something in his eyes, quick, almost imperceptible. Concern?
I shift, rolling out my shoulders, shaking the soreness from my limbs. “I’m fine.”
Thane studies me a second longer—like he’s weighing the truth behind the words. Then—just like that—the moment passes.
“Good.” He steps back into position. “Because today, you’re going to learn how to take a hit.”
He doesn’t wait. He lifts one hand and murmurs something under his breath. A subtle ripple spreads through the air.
I tense, my fingers flexing at my sides as my skin prickles with the familiar pulse of magics. The enchantment settles over me—not heavy like the pressure of water, not crackling like fire, not grounding like earth. It’s light, thin as a whisper, wrapping around me like the wind before a storm.
I glance down at my hands, at the faint shimmer now coating my knuckles. The same glow traces over Thane’s fists before fading.
This won’t last forever. For now, I can take a hit without much consequence. Soon, I’ll have to learn how to fight through the pain.
I push the thought aside, flexing my fingers.
Thane tilts his head. “Ready?”
I set my stance, clenching my fists, planting my feet. “Yeah.” I don’t let myself hesitate.
“Good,” he says.
Thane moves before I can blink. One moment he’s standing still, and the next—he’s on me. Fast. Precise. Fluid like wind, sharp like a blade.
His body barely makes a sound, his strikes coming in quick, controlled bursts. No wasted motion. No unnecessary force. His footwork is effortless, each step perfectly placed, shifting his weight seamlessly between attacks. He doesn’t lunge or overextend—he flows.
I barely have time to react before his first strike connects with my guard. A sharp pressure—his palm hitting my forearm, testing my stance. I absorb it, try to counter, but he’s already moved. He pivots smoothly, ducking around my reaction, striking low, his foot sweeping toward my ankle.
I stumble back, barely catching myself.
He never stops. Every motion is a calculated thread in a seamless sequence.
A quick feint to my ribs. A real strike aimed at my shoulder.
A sharp flick of his foot to test my balance.
A step forward and then he’s already stepping back.
A punch thrown and then he’s already dodged before I’ve fully extended.
I try to track him, to find a rhythm, but there isn’t one. Because he’s not reacting. He’s dictating every move.
And I can’t keep up.
I shift my stance, trying to predict his next move, but he’s too fast. It’s not like fighting a person, but rather a force of nature. A few more moments of this—testing, assessing, dodging everything I throw at him like it’s effortless—and then, finally, he steps back.
I let out a breathless gasp and bend over, bracing my hands on my knees.
Thane inclines his head, arms loose at his sides, like this wasn’t even a warm-up.
“Let’s work on your defensive skills,” he says. “Now I have a better idea of what you’re capable of.” He pauses, then adds, “And so far, it’s not much.”
I glare at him.
“What did they even teach you back in your village, anyway?”
My jaw tightens. I wipe sweat from my brow, forcing my pulse to slow. “Enough to survive,” I mutter.
Thane’s expression doesn’t change. “Not for long,” he says. “Not like this.”
I grit my teeth. The ache in my arms flares, but I don’t look away.
I’m not just some soft-handed girl with no idea how to fight. Farming takes strength. Endurance. Grit. I have all of that.
“I can take it,” I say. “Teach me.”
His lips twitch slightly, like that’s exactly what he was waiting to hear. “Good,” he says. “Let’s begin.”
The air is thick with sweat and steel. Leather and pressure. Every stone under my boots is marked by someone stronger than me.
But I’m here now.
I don’t know if I belong here. But I know I’m not leaving.
“You can’t just know how to hit,” Thane says. “You have to know how to take a hit.”
I clench my fists. “I’ve taken hits before.”
His lips twitch. “Not like this.”
He moves. His first strike comes slow—testing, measuring. I raise my arms, blocking it, absorbing the impact. That was easy. The next strike is faster. I block it, but the force reverberates through my forearm, sending a dull ache up to my elbow.