36. Limits #2
Ash sends a wave of gravity toward him, enough to throw him off balance, while I aim a concussive blast of sound straight at his chest. It should knock him back, should send him staggering under the combined assault.
He takes the full force of our combined assault and only staggers back a step.
No explosion of energy sends him flying, no crushing weight forces him to his knees.
He should have been thrown halfway across the clearing, but instead, he is still standing, his teeth clenched, his muscles taut with effort.
I falter for half a second. Have we held back too much? No, I know what my power can do. I have knocked fully grown warriors off their feet before. And Ash’s gravity should have flattened him.
Zander just rolls his shoulders and smirks. “That all you’ve got?”
It is like hitting a wall of iron. Zander is a trained killing machine, his body honed through years of brutal combat.
He doesn’t just endure. He adapts, pushes past his limits.
He stands there unshaken, his resilience surprising even us.
He absorbs our combined assault with a defiance that leaves us momentarily speechless, and in that single moment, it is clear: no matter what we throw at him, he is always ready for more.
He is moving before I can question it further, too fast for me to overanalyze. I barely have time to shift before he sweeps my legs out from under me. I hit the ground with a thud, the impact rattling through my spine.
Ash lunges at him next, doubling down, but Zander takes him apart just as effortlessly. A quick twist, a sharp pivot, and Ash is the one face-down in the dirt.
I push myself up, scowling. “What the hell was that?”
Zander just grins down at us, breath even, not a single ounce of strain showing. “Maybe you two rely too much on your fancy powers.”
Ash groans, rolling onto his back. “I hate that you might be right.” Ash groans again and pushes himself upright, shaking dirt from his hair. “Alright, I think that's enough of getting our asses handed to us for one day.”
I roll my shoulders, wincing at the ache settling deep in my muscles. “Agreed.”
Zander smirks, offering me a hand. “Admitting defeat already?”
I slap his hand away and stand on my own. “Not a chance. But if I push any harder, I might not make it back to Wraithmoor in one piece.”
Ash chuckles. “And here I thought you were getting better at this.”
I shoot him a glare, but don't have the energy to retort. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. My body aches from the repeated impact. The sun has dipped lower, casting long shadows through the trees.
By the time we make it back to the stronghold, the familiar hum of activity greets us: rebels moving through their preparations, the air tense with the knowledge of the battle creeping closer. But Oberon is nowhere to be seen.
I don't need to ask where he is. The answer is always the same lately, off proving his loyalty to the king.
I knew before we even stepped through the gates. There is no presence lingering in the back of my mind, no sharp gaze finding mine across the chaos. He is gone again, answering yet another summons.
A familiar knot twists in my stomach. I hate not knowing what he is doing, what mask he has to wear, what lines he has to cross. But he made his choice, just as I have made mine.
Still, as I wipe the sweat from my brow and make my way inside, I can't shake the feeling that with every passing day, the space between us only grows wider. I exhale, rolling my sore shoulders as I scan the familiar faces around me. We are all preparing, all bracing for what is to come.
Ash nudges me with his elbow. “You look like you’re thinking too hard again.”
I shoot him a tired glare. “I’m thinking just the right amount.”
He smirks. “You sure? Because you look like you’re either plotting someone’s death or about to fall over.”
Zander chuckles from my other side. “Both are likely.”
I shake my head but don’t argue. The truth is, I am just . . . tired. Tired of training, tired of waiting, tired of the unknown.
The king has been demanding Oberon’s presence more and more. Each summons drags him deeper, and though he wears a tough face, I can see the weight of it pressing down on him. The past still haunts him, I know it, even if he never speaks of it. His mask is nearly flawless, but not to me.
At least, I haven’t heard any fresh rumors of him razing villages or tormenting cities, a small mercy.
But that doesn’t mean he tells me everything.
When he is away, I never know what he is forced to do, what blood might stain his hands by the time he returns.
And when he does return, he is different.
Some days, he is himself, teasing, steady, familiar.
Other days, he is distant, his mind miles away, even when he stands right in front of me.
Oberon has pulled me back from my darkest hours, stood by me when I wasn’t sure I could stand on my own. I want to be the same for him, but I don’t know how. He rarely lets me in, and when he does, it is only in fragments, half-truths, and exhausted silences.
I bury myself in training with Zander and Ash when he is gone. The distraction is needed. They push me to my limits, never letting me hold back, and I am better for it. My body aches from the bruises, but my movements have become sharper, my reflexes quicker.
Most of our training still happens at the cabin, even now that I have better control. I don’t mind the isolation. It is a reprieve from the stronghold’s constant noise.
I don’t have to step inside, don’t have to let old ghosts linger in the back of my mind. It is just a place now. Nothing more.