Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Eirabella
The door to the combat room creaks open as I push it, the sound echoing through the empty space like the world’s most ominous announcement. I’m already on edge, anxious about whatever torture Rylan has planned for me today, but as soon as I step inside, something feels different.
Then I see him.
Rylan is standing by the far wall, inspecting something on one of the weapon racks. But it’s not the sword in his hand that draws my attention. It’s him. My feet stumble to a stop, my stomach doing somersaults that leave me flustered.
He’s wearing what can only be described as a training outfit, though it’s far from the usual kind of training attire I’ve come to expect. No, this outfit was clearly designed with function in mind but with a hell of a lot of attention to form. Rylan’s form. Rylan’s honed-to-godly-perfection form.
The vest is deep midnight blue, the fabric unfamiliar to me, with a texture and weave unlike anything I’ve seen before. It has an iridescent sheen that catches the light, shifting between shades of silver and black. It’s snug in all the right places, clinging to his broad shoulders and tapering down to his muscled waist, belted with a silver clasp. The material molds to him, highlighting his form in a way that makes it impossible to ignore just how well-built he is. And don’t get me started on the section over his abdomen—because apparently, even through armour, Rylan’s corded muscles can’t help but be on full display, the material outlining the ridges of his abdominal muscles as if it were designed with that very purpose in mind: to drive my desire into almost uncontrollable levels.
Which it probably was. Because the gods hate me.
My eyes narrow into a scowl before I can stop myself, irritation—at myself and at him—flaring up like wildfire. What kind of mentor looks like that? This isn’t fair. I’m here to train, to survive whatever brutal regimen he has in store, not to be distracted by the fact that he looks like he just stepped out of some fantasy warrior romance. It’s infuriating that my traitorous brain is even noticing these things, let alone having my body react to them.
It was easier when he wasn’t here. My memory of him had paled in comparison to the reality.
He takes a long step to reach for one of the swords, drawing attention to the bottom half of his so-called outfit.
The pants match the jacket, fitted perfectly to allow for movement, though they somehow manage to emphasise his muscular legs every time he shifts his stance. His boots are knee-high, polished but sturdy, clearly meant for someone who spends time battling the elements. Everything about this outfit is designed for practicality, and yet it just happens to make him look even more ridiculously attractive.
And that’s really pissing me off.
As if finally feeling my eyes practically scraping over every inch of him, Rylan turns, catching sight of me, and those piercing eyes of his zero in on mine. I can’t stop the scowl that deepens on my face, embarrassment bubbling up inside me as I fight the urge to tell him off for looking so damn… well, like that.
“Disciple,” he says, his voice completely calm, like he isn’t aware of the turmoil he’s causing in my head, in my body. “You’re late.”
My scowl hardens, more at myself than at him, but he doesn’t need to know that. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m fazed by any of this. “Yes, well, you’re a week late. I’ve been here on time every day since you’ve been gone,” I snap, instantly regretting how flustered I sound.
His brow lifts, and for a moment, he looks genuinely surprised, as if he can’t quite figure out why I’m so annoyed. Then, in that infuriatingly calm way of his, he tilts his head slightly, eyes glinting with what looks suspiciously like amusement. “Is something bothering you?”
Is he serious? I open my mouth to retort, but my brain is too busy short-circuiting over the fact that he might have just caught on to my ridiculous reaction. No way. He’s just fishing for something to get under my skin. That’s got to be it.
I cross my arms, more as a barrier than anything else, and force myself to hold his gaze. “Not at all,” I say, voice clipped, trying to channel all my frustration into sounding unimpressed. “I just didn’t expect you to be so… overdressed for a training session.”
His eyes narrow ever so slightly as he looks down over his body, and I can see the wheels turning in his head, probably trying to figure out whether I’m being sarcastic or just critical. “This is functional, not fashion,” he replies, a little too smoothly. “But if you’re not impressed, feel free to say so. I could just… take it off.”
I nearly choke. Not impressed? Is he kidding? If anything, that’s the problem. I’m very impressed with what I see, and that’s exactly why I’m so damn irritated. Because I’m thinking of the latter part of what he said. But there’s no way I’m admitting that.
I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “Just seems like a lot of effort for someone who’s supposed to be teaching, not—” I flick my hand over his outfit—“whatever this is.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately want to slap myself. Because despite how much I want to focus on training, on becoming stronger, on not getting distracted by a ridiculously attractive man in an impossibly well-tailored outfit, my thoughts keep circling back to one undeniable truth.
Rylan looks fucking divine in that outfit.
And I really, really wish he didn’t.
He clears his throat, and I snap my gaze back up to his face, hoping he didn’t notice. But the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth tells me he did.
“Once you’re done ogling your crown prince and mentor, perhaps we can get started.” His face sobers. “First Keeper trial is in just over ten weeks.”
My stomach drops. “Ten weeks? I can’t win a trial in that time! I can’t even conjure enough liquid to throw a glass of water in your face!” The words come out in a rush, panic bubbling up inside me.
Rylan holds up a hand to quiet my words, his expression calm and steady. “Not yet,” he agrees, his voice steadying me, even though I don’t want to be steadied right now. “But don’t forget, you don’t have to win the first trial—you just have to not come last.”
“Not come last?” I echo, still reeling from the announcement. That doesn’t sound any better. The thought of being thrown into a trial with Selene and even Doran is enough to make my head spin.
“Don’t worry about that right now,” Rylan says, taking a step closer. His voice is softer now, more reassuring. “We’re going to take it one day at a time. And I’m going to get you there. Trust me.”
I blink, still feeling that uneasy flutter in my chest. “Let’s just… let’s just go to the training grounds. And see these miracles you think you can perform.”
“After you, disciple.”
Rylan stops a few paces ahead of me when we reach the training grounds, his eyes locked on mine with a calm intensity that makes my heart race. There’s something about the way he looks at me—like he believes in me more than I believe in myself. It’s comforting and terrifying all at once. And I’ve missed it.
He watches me for a moment longer, then tilts his head slightly, his expression softening. “I want you to think back to the few times you’ve used your Strength recently. It’s always been born out of desperation, hasn’t it? Moments where you had no other choice, where pure fear and panic took over. You didn’t have any control over it, really.”
I swallow hard, memories flashing through my mind—the fire in the village, the look of pain on Rylan’s face in the woods. “I guess,” I admit, my voice barely a whisper. “Every time I’ve used it, it’s been when I was scared. Like in the village, or when you were…” My voice trails off, not needing to finish the sentence. He knows.
Rylan nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “I think that’s taught you to fear your magic. You’ve started to associate it with those moments of terror, as if it’s something that only comes out when things are at their worst.”
I blink, the truth of his words hitting me hard. He’s right. Every time I’ve touched my magic, it’s felt like a wild, uncontrollable force, something that responds to fear, not to me. Not to mention, all the times that fear… pushed the magic even deeper. Even before Rylan had even come into my life.
“But here’s the thing,” Rylan continues, stepping closer. “Your magic doesn’t control you. You control your magic. I want you to remember that, if nothing else, that’s what you’re going to remember today, okay? You control your magic. So today isn’t just about learning to use your magic, it’s about reclaiming it.”
I feel a flicker of hope at the way he’s sounding so confident, a small but undeniable whisper of hope. “I… think I can do that.”
He smiles, a small, encouraging curve of his lips. “We’re going to find where the magic exists inside you. We’re going to teach your magic that it doesn’t need fear to come out. And we’re going to teach you that you can call on it whenever you want, not just when you’re desperate.”
The words settle into me like a warm, steadying weight. I nod, more determined now than I’ve ever been. “I’m ready.”
“Good,” Rylan says, the challenge returning to his eyes. “Let’s start simple.” He motions for me to close my eyes, and I do, letting the world around me fade into the background. “Breathe,” he instructs, his tone low and calming. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Nice and slow. Focus on nothing but your breath and my voice.”
I follow his lead, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. My heartbeat begins to steady, the anxiety ebbing away with each breath. The sounds of the forest, the chill of the early morning air, all of it slips away until there’s nothing but the steady rhythm of my breath and Rylan’s voice guiding me.
“Now, I want you to imagine your magic inside you,” Rylan directs. “Think back to those moments when it appeared.” My eyes spring open as I’m immediately taken back to the village in flames. He shakes his head and gives me a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. Close your eyes, breathe through the panic. And try to push through the instinct to put yourself in the terror of that moment, and try to remember what was happening in your body at the time. What happened, what moved, what came alive?”
My brow furrows as I try to remember how it had felt, standing there, watching Rylan thrashing as the fire burned him, as I tried to conjure a stream of water to cool his blistering skin. There’s a stirring in the middle of my chest, a ripple, and in my mind’s eye, I can see something start to coalesce. Shallow and small, almost like a rain puddle, but it’s there. “I think I see it. It’s like… it’s like a puddle. Is that silly?”
He lets out a gentle laugh. It almost makes me want to open my eyes so I can see the expression on his face, but I’m scared to lose sight of my magic. “No, it’s not silly. My magic sometimes looks like a tiny little barely burning ember. It has to start somewhere. Now hold onto that image, play with it, make it bigger or smaller. Whenever you want to start conjuring your magic, imagine it there inside you. How it feels, how it looks. Got it?”
I nod. I start by making the puddle bigger until it’s like a little fish pond. Then, for fun, I reach out and touch it in my mind’s eye, and it ripples, making me giggle.
“Good. Now, reach into that pond, and gently, pull out a little thread. As if you’re threading a needle. Don’t grab it. Don’t force it. Just touch it, like you’d touch the surface of a calm lake. Feel it respond to you.”
I reach out in my mind, hesitant but determined. I try to touch the pond, to feel it as he described, but instead of responding to my touch, this time it slips away, elusive as smoke. My heart pounds with frustration, and I clench my fists, willing myself to calm down. I try again, but this time, the puddle doesn’t even appear. The harder I try, the more elusive the magic becomes.
“It’s not working,” I mutter through gritted teeth, my voice tight with irritation. “I can’t… It just slips away.”
Rylan’s voice is calm, steady. “That’s okay. Don’t force it. This isn’t about controlling every aspect of the magic—it’s about working with it. You’re trying too hard to make it do what you want. Let it flow, and let it respond to you naturally.”
I take a shaky breath, but the frustration doesn’t ease. “It’s just… It’s like the more I try to reach it, the more it runs away. It’s like I’m chasing something that doesn’t want to be caught.”
He steps closer, his tone gentle but firm. “How are you feeling right now? Tell me what’s going on in your head.”
I close my eyes again, trying to sort through the tangled mess of emotions. “I’m… I’m frustrated. It feels like the more I try, the more I’m losing it. And then I start to panic, thinking that if I can’t do this, I’ll never be able to control it.”
Rylan’s hand rests on my shoulder, grounding me. “That’s exactly it. You’re putting too much pressure on yourself. You’re trying to control something that doesn’t need to be controlled so tightly. You’re not failing—you’re just approaching it the wrong way.”
I open my eyes, meeting his gaze. “So, what do I do?”
“Trust yourself,” he says simply. “Trust that the magic is there, that it’s part of you. It’s not going anywhere, Eira. So don’t chase it. Invite it. Let it come to you.”
I nod slowly, his words sinking in. “Invite it. Don’t chase it.”
“Exactly,” he says, stepping back. “Let’s try again. Close your eyes, breathe, and this time, just let the magic flow. Don’t force it to be what you want—let it show you what it can be.”
I close my eyes again, taking a deep breath. The image of the pond returns, but this time, I don’t try to grab it or force it into my hand. I just let it flow, imagining it as a part of me, something that’s always been there, waiting for me to acknowledge it.
And slowly, I begin to feel it. The magic responds, not with the wild rush of fear or desperation, but with a gentle, steady pulse.
“It’s there. Tell me what to do.”
“Now, gently, try to conjure some water into your hand, a little small orb of water in your palm. Picture it in your mind, and then project it onto your hand, using the water as your medium.”
Taking a deep breath, I reach out, not with desperation but with trust, and I feel… something in my hand. Wet. Fluid. It slowly condenses, the feeling narrowing and thickening until a small but solid presence forms in my palm. I open my eyes, and there it is, shimmering in the morning light, a pool of water.
“Good, now shape it,” I hear Rylan’s voice, instructing me.
I slowly exhale and picture a ball and slowly, I feel the water shifting, swirling within itself, forming a perfect sphere. The surface is smooth, cool to the touch, but inside, there’s movement, a gentle, swirling dance of energy that’s both contained and free. The orb pulses with a soft light, catching the morning sun and refracting it into a thousand tiny rainbows, each one a testament to the power I hold in my hand. It’s beautiful, mesmerising, and most of all, it’s mine—born not of fear, but of control, of trust.
My heart swells with relief and pride, and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face .
Rylan grins. “You did it,” he whispers, as if he’s scared to break the spell.
I freeze, every muscle tensed, the orb still hovering in my palm. My breath comes in ragged gasps, but I don’t let go, not yet. I’m not ready to let it go.
“You did it,” he repeats louder, and there’s a note of pride in his voice that makes my heart swell. “I told you you could.”
I nod, unable to speak, too overwhelmed by the realisation that I’ve done it. The fear that once gripped me, the sense of being out of control—it’s gone, replaced by something new, something powerful. I reclaimed my magic today, and for the first time, I feel like it’s truly mine. I let out a shaky breath, finally allowing the orb to dissolve back into the stream of magic within me. It fades away, but the sense of control, of power, remains. I meet Rylan’s gaze, and for the first time, I truly believe that I can do this.
“See?” Rylan breathes, his eyes filled with hope. “You’re stronger than you think, Eirabella. This is just the beginning.”
And finally it sounds like a promise, rather than a threat.