Raven Chapter 33 Foundations and Frustrations 411
Raven
As I lie here, flat on my back in the musty hay of the carriage house, I can’t help but replay how I ended up here. I really wasn’t expecting the quiet one to be the most physically badass—but honestly, it serves me right for assuming.
Enra has put me on my ass at least six times now.
Seeing as anyone who isn’t asexual would probably let this woman step on their throat for a moment in her presence, I don’t mind.
She’s lethal, gorgeous, and apparently that’s entirely normal for nymphs.
Why they’re not ruling the worlds instead of a bunch of power-hungry gods, I’ll never understand.
“It’s obvious you were taught by large men,” she says, not even winded. “They’ve never had to fight from a center of gravity at the hips, with a foot of height and a hundred pounds of muscle missing.”
She reaches down, clasps my hand in hers, and pulls me up. I groan. “So everything I’ve learned so far is useless?” If so, I am going to strangle Forrest with my bare hands , I add internally.
“I wouldn’t say that. You have a very good foundation. You just need to relearn a few things from a different point of view.” She cocks her head, then grabs my hips and shifts them into position. “Here. Your power comes from your core, not your shoulders.”
As the session goes on, I’m both frustrated and incredibly relieved.
Frustrated because I’m having to relearn what felt instinctual; relieved because there was a reason I always felt so clumsy training with the guys.
It wasn’t just me being broken—it was just that I was fighting in someone else’s body.
Enra guides me through stances, strikes, defensive pivots. Her corrections are small, precise. And through it all, I’m hyper-aware of Forrest, standing silent in the doorway. Arms crossed. Not intervening. Not correcting.
When Enra calls a break, he simply meets my eyes and gives a single, slow nod.
Not the sharp, critical nod of someone ticking off a checklist. This one is different. Heavier. Like he's acknowledging something he didn't expect to see.
I let myself look at him. Really look.
He's still in that perfectly tailored suit, because of course he is.
If the man slept regularly, he'd probably do it in a blazer.
But there's something about the way he's standing—arms crossed, shoulder against the doorframe—that isn't quite so rigid.
The line of his jaw is still sharp enough to cut glass, and those light green eyes haven't softened exactly, but they're not drilling into me for once. They're just... watching.
And he looks exhausted. Not in the obvious way—no dramatic dark circles or slumped shoulders. That would be too human. But the shadows under his eyes are darker than yesterday. Just a shade. The kind of difference you'd only notice if you spent way too much time staring at his face like I do.
The fine lines at the corners of his eyes seem more pronounced, too. Or maybe that's just the light. It could also be the way he's leaning against the doorframe, putting more weight on it than he'd ever admit.
Then there’s that stray wave of chocolate brown hair that has fallen over his forehead again. I have the insane urge to push it back. Partly to see if it's as soft as it looks. Mostly to see if he'd let me.
He's handsome. I've always known that. But right now, with his silent nod still hanging in the air and exhaustion etched into his face, he's not handsome in that untouchable, marble-statue way.
He's just... him. Tired. Real. Unguarded.
Then Enra claps her hands and I snap out of my ogling, grateful for the distraction.
Now is probably not the time to be trying to figure out a way to talk Ro-ro into some loungewear and onto a couch with me.
I shake out my hands and get back to work.
I pull the sweater away from my sticky skin and curse the universe for giving me a teacher who insists I train in “realistic attire.” All I want is to tear off this damned sweater and the stupid boots I threw on before stumbling out here.
“We’ll meet here every day for the next week, at minimum,” Numbra says. She’s the only other member of Izzy’s team who came out—everyone else is inside with Selena. “Both physical and magical training.”
“The next week ?” I ask, my vacation fantasy officially crumbling. No one works out like this on vacation.
Numbra’s gaze is unflinching. “Do you have somewhere more pressing to be? Some breakthrough with that journal we don’t know about yet?”
The words land like a slap. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. She’s right. If I weren’t here, sweating and sore and progressing, I’d be somewhere with Em, staring at unreadable pages and hating myself for failing.
This ache in my muscles, and the burn in my lungs is the one thing I can do. The one way I’m not useless.
Enra nods. “We’re willing to guard Selena, but that means we need to be certain—beyond a fraction of a doubt—that you can handle yourself without us.” She gestures at me. “You’ve already put in weeks of work. The foundation is there. We’re just… remodeling.”
Numbra folds her arms. “And we need to teach you to access your magic on purpose. Not by accident.”
I shake my head. “My familiars are still asleep, I think. And every time I try to reach for power, I just… set things on fire.”
Numbra does the Forrest Nose Pinch . “You think? You haven’t checked?”
“I checked this morning.”
“Check again. And don’t just sense them—poke them. Try to interact.”
I close my eyes, shutting out the carriage house, the hay-scented air, the crushing weight of their expectations. I reach inward, past the static, past the fatigue, toward the quiet pocket of my mind where Huginn and Muninn have been sleeping.
A soft, fuzzy awareness nudges back. Not words. Not images. More like… the sensation of feathers rustling in the dark. A drowsy, curious ping.
You’re awake.
Another nudge, warmer this time, and I take it as a reassuring yes.
“They’re awake,” I murmur, eyes still closed. “Just barely.”
“Good,” Numbra says, her voice lower now. “Now, don’t push further. Just feel the connection between you. Does it extend only between the two of you? How does it feel? Is it a live wire? A solid bridge? A rickety ladder? Familiarize yourself with its shape. Its texture. That’s your homework.”
Homework. Right. I now intimately understand the teenage urge to rebel against it. I'd rather get put on my ass six more times than sit here metaphorically holding my own psychic hand.
But I do it anyway.
I stay like that for a few minutes, mapping the feeling. It’s not a wire—it’s more like… a root system. Thin, fibrous, alive. Delicate but deep. And humming, very faintly, with the same energy that usually explodes out of me.
When I open my eyes, both women are watching me closely. Enra gives a small, approving nod.
“Tomorrow,” Numbra says, “we build on that. Today, rest. Your body needs to integrate what you’ve learned.”
The rest of the evening is a blur of distracted pokes at my inner world and the magical wiring that makes it up.
I didn’t even taste dinner. Decades as a food-obsessed ghost, and now I’m ignoring Miriam’s cooking to have a staring contest with my own soul.
My life choices are truly next-level. Someone give me a trophy for the worst use of a second chance.
Between dinner—which probably tasted great, not that I’d know—and the slow march toward bedtime, I’m mentally nudging the two sleeping birds in my head like they’re faulty appliances while mapping out the magic that lives inside of me.
Okay, so the bond feels like… live roots. Cool. Very botanical chic. Am I a demigoddess or a potted plant? No one will ever know. Well, except Em. He’d probably figure it out then, if I end up being a potted plant, he’d hide me away in his little garden like some sort of stolen treasure.
Which sounds pretty awesome, to be honest. Goodbye demigod responsibilities and hello pampered life as a potted plant.
Weirdly, I’ve only had this inside of me for three short weeks, or whenever Huginn and Muninn melded with me in the most painful hug I’ve ever experienced. I’ve always seen this connection to my familiars, not to the magic itself.
It’s always been there, though. A staticky hum in my bones. My response? Treat it like a sleeping bomb. Which, to be fair, was the right call—every time I’ve poked it before, things caught fire.
So yeah, I’ve been giving it a wide berth. You don’t cuddle a landmine.
But now Numbra’s given me homework. So, instead of just blowing things up, I’m attempting to feel the connection .
Huginn and Muninn don’t chat, but they do send what feel like little emotional pings. The little warm blob I take as “we’re fine,” the cool shiver as “we’re listening”, and something that feels a lot like “stop worrying, you drama queen.”
By the time I finally pass out in the early hours of the morning, I’ve got a decent mental map of my inside world.
It’s less “holding a delicate bird” and more “palming a live grenade that’s decided it likes me.”
Alive, volatile, and weirdly comforting.
The morning starts with a very sad breakfast. Apparently, heavy physical training and a tower of pancakes don’t mix, so I was given a fruit cup and some eggs by Forrest.
The bright side? I’m getting the whole eye communication down with Em. After Ro-ro’s rude breakfast swap, I looked at him, trying to convey “please hand me a knife so I can shank this man,” and he actually pulled one out.
Progress.
I would have regretted shanking him, though.
The start of the training is pretty simple—footwork tailored to my build.
But the rest of the training session consists of me having to apply that footwork, and that is way harder.
At least Enra knows how to compliment me appropriately. Hopefully, Forrest is taking notes.