THIRTY-FOUR #2
“My village was attacked,” I start, my voice tight. “There was screaming. Shadows everywhere. I couldn’t find Lyra. Then I did. But my parents were in danger, and I left them. I thought I could get back in time.”
My throat tightens.
“I didn’t.”
My chest constricts, but I keep moving.
“That’s when the house collapsed. With them inside.”
I pause, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment. When I open them, the flame is fluttering violently. I plant my feet and force the breath from my lungs, turning my head so I don’t blow it out.
“I didn’t even understand what was happening. I just felt something rip open inside me.”
The flame jerks sideways. I stop moving. Breathe. Refocus.
It steadies again.
Valen doesn’t interrupt. He lets the silence do its work.
“I tried to protect people,” I continue. “But I didn’t know what I was doing. The power just . . . exploded out of me. I didn’t choose it.”
“And now?” he asks.
I meet his gaze. “Now I want to.”
The flame holds.
A faint smile touches Valen’s mouth. “Then you’ve already taken the first step.”
I glance down at the flame still dancing above my palm.
“You can let it go now,” he says quietly.
I release the magics. The fire gutters out.
We rest in silence for a while, seated again on the ledge. My body is flushed with exertion, sweat cooling on my back. The flame has long since faded, and so has my focus. But something in me feels clearer now. A bit unmoored, yes, but steadier than before.
Valen doesn’t rush me. He lets the quiet stretch, and when he finally speaks, his voice is softer than it was before.
“Ready for the third step?”
I look at him with wide eyes. “There’s a third step? I feel like I barely survived the second!”
He smiles.
“This one is less about control.”
I narrow my eyes.
“That sounds suspicious.”
His smile widens.
“It should.”
He shifts into a cross-legged position, his hands resting loosely on his knees. I mirror him, settling back onto the stone. My legs ache and my spine protests, but I push the discomfort aside.
“This is where most students struggle,” he says. “They think mastery comes from holding tighter. From exerting more control. But the Water Clan teaches something older.”
He closes his eyes.
“The body learns control.”
A pause.
“The spirit learns trust.”
I blink, turning the word over in my mind.
Trust?
I draw in a deep breath, settling into the familiar rhythm I learned at the outpost the first time I wielded more than one Element.
“Again.”
The world begins to narrow, but not in a way that feels confining. It feels focused. Intentional.
“The Elements,” he murmurs, “are not tools. They are not extensions of you. They are living forces. You cannot own them. You can only listen.”
My breath deepens.
I can feel it.
First the warmth of fire, pulsing low in my belly.
Then the flicker of air behind my ribs, featherlight.
The pull of water at the base of my spine, cool and gliding.
Earth steadfast beneath it all.
Valen speaks again, voice distant now, as if carried on a current.
“Don’t reach for them. Don’t pull. Let them flow through you.”
Counterintuitively, I let go of the grasping instinct. The need to draw. To hold. To use.
And in its place, something opens.
Magics stir.
But not the way I’m used to.
Fire doesn’t claw its way up my throat, wild and consuming. Wind doesn’t burst behind my ribs, desperate to escape. Water doesn’t surge through my bloodstream, crashing against every edge of control. Even earth, which can be resistant and heavy, rises beneath my skin to anchor me in place.
This is different. Effortless. Like floating down a slow-moving river.
Like the elements aren’t being summoned. They’re simply here, moving with me, not for me. Choosing to stay.
And I understand now why Valen insisted on each step—why stillness had to come before movement, why I had to learn to hold before I could flow. Without that foundation, this communion wouldn’t be possible.
A shiver of recognition runs down my spine.
“They were never yours to command,” Valen says, and now I can’t tell if I hear him aloud or if it’s my mind saying the words he would likely say. “They answer to those who honor them.”
The stillness holds.
Light.
Deep.
Expansive.
And I finally understand, to my core, what it means to wield without force. To let the magics move with me rather than through clenched fists and sheer will.
The trance deepens.
I don’t move. I don’t reach. I simply exist.
And the magics exist with me.
The Elements don’t resist or fight. They flow.
Then, gently, Calryx’s voice brushes the edges of my mind like the tide against a distant shore.
“This is what I meant, Virelya.”
Her words settle deep in my chest.
“Power doesn’t always have to roar. Sometimes, it waits. Watches. Welcomes.”
Warmth lingers beneath her words, along with a fierce pride that is impossible to miss.
My eyes are still closed when Valen speaks.
“That,” he says, “is the difference between wielding and becoming.”
I open my eyes.
His eyes crinkle with pride. “And we will keep practicing the Second Breath until you can carry that stillness with you, even when the world demands otherwise.”
Valen studies me for a moment, his gaze thoughtful in that way that always makes me feel as though he sees too much.
“Amara,” he says quietly, “besides training and studying . . . are you doing anything to balance all of this work you’re putting into being the Spiritborn?”
I blink, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
He must read the confusion on my face, because his tone softens.
“I mean, do you read novels? Paint? Walk just to feel the air on your face? Do you have something that isn’t about survival or duty? Something that lets your mind rest. Something that doesn’t require you to be vigilant.”
I stare at him.
“No,” I admit quietly. “I haven’t. There hasn’t been any time. Any space.”
I hadn’t realized how true that was until I heard myself say it.
Because it’s not just about time. It’s about permission. About the way I’ve been living, every moment tied to purpose, to expectation, to pressure I can’t seem to put down.
Valen doesn’t chastise me. He just nods thoughtfully.
“That’s the most dangerous kind of burnout,” he says. “The kind you don’t see coming until it’s already taken something from you.”
His gaze drops for a moment.
“And I should have seen it sooner.”
The crease between his brows deepens.
“This is my fault. And for that, I’m sorry.”
He pauses, his jaw tightening briefly before he continues. It’s a reaction I rarely, if ever, see from him.
“A part of your training should have included space to rest your mind, not just your body. To be, not always become. I should have made room for that. Please forgive me.”
I reach for him and take his hands in mine.
“Valen, it’s okay,” I say gently. “There’s a war. There’s been so much to do. So much you’ve had to teach me.”
But he shakes his head, cutting me off before I can say more.
“No,” he says firmly. “Part of your training should include things that have nothing to do with war. Or survival.”
His gaze holds mine, unflinching.
“They have to do with living.”
Living.
The word echoes through me.
I think of the quiet moments that used to make up a life before everything fractured.
My mother knitting by the fire, humming softly to herself.
My father playing music on his old fiddle, an indulgence gifted to him after years of service to the realm.
There was no urgency in those nights. No looming threat.
Just warmth. Laughter. The kind of peace I never thought to cherish until it was gone.
Yes, I have love. I have Thane. And I have my friends—people who would fight for me, die for me. But what do I have that’s just mine? What piece of my life isn’t tied to duty or destiny or someone else’s needs?
I search for the answer. And come up empty.
Valen must see it on my face, the way the realization settles behind my eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is gentler.
“Amara . . . when was the last time you truly enjoyed a moment of quiet?” he asks. “Not because you were exhausted. Not because you had to. Because you wanted to. What were you doing?”
I release his hands and close my eyes.
“My hands in the dirt,” I whisper. “Working the fields with my family. Growing things. Tending them.”
The memory rises, tender and sharp all at once.
“That was the last time I felt peace.” I swallow hard. “It was the morning before the attack at my village.”
Valen places a hand on my shoulder.
I open my eyes.
His voice is soft when he speaks. “Would you like a garden here at the capital?”
I blink, not quite sure I heard him correctly.
“So you can grow things. Tend to them. Put your hands in the dirt again.”
He pauses, searching my face.
“I think we’re going to be here for a while,” he adds. “You might as well have something that’s yours.”
I look away, shaking my head.
“No, Valen. That’s too indulgent,” I say, the words sharper than I intend. “There’s a war at hand. I can’t just play in the dirt planting things like none of this is happening.”
Valen’s expression doesn’t change, but I have the distinct feeling he expected this response.
“It’s because there’s a war that you need it,” he counters. “Peace isn’t indulgent, Amara. It’s survival of a different kind.”
I hesitate. The arguments rise to my lips, but before I can say anything, Valen continues.
“There’s more than one kind of burnout,” he says. “It isn’t only magical.”
He holds my gaze.
“If you burn out emotionally, Amara . . . you won’t be able to be the Spiritborn the realm needs.”
The protest dies before it reaches my tongue. Because the truth is, I trust him. Valen has guided me through grief, power, loss, and mistakes I never thought I would survive. Time and time again, he’s seen what I couldn’t.
If he believes I need this, then maybe I do.
So I nod.
The idea still feels strange. Indulgent, even. But when I picture dark soil beneath my fingernails and something green pushing toward the sun, a small spark of excitement unfurls in my chest.
I’m going to have my very own garden.