Chapter 14 Zyphon
FOURTEEN
ZYPHON
We work for hours.
She fights me every step of the way. Snaps at my instructions. Bristles at my corrections. Argues with advice she asked for and then refuses to take it. The hostility is exhausting—a constant wall I have to push against just to make incremental progress.
But her power responds to mine.
I can’t explain it—can barely understand it myself.
When I let my shadows loose, her shadow-flame calms. When she loses control, my darkness rises to meet it, wrapping around the wild fire and gentling it without conscious direction.
We’re two halves of something that was never meant to be divided, reaching for each other across centuries of separation.
She notices. I can tell by the way her expression shifts when our powers touch—confusion giving way to something she can’t name. She doesn’t comment on it. Neither do I.
Some things are easier left unspoken.
By midday, she’s made progress. Not much—her control is still shaky, her fire still prone to flaring when emotion gets the better of her. But the wild, uncontrolled surges have smoothed into something more manageable. She can call the shadow-flame and dismiss it without setting anything ablaze.
It’s a start.
“We’ll break for lunch,” I say. “Resume in an hour.”
“I didn’t agree to an entire day of this.”
“You agreed to training. Training takes time.” I meet her glare without flinching. “Unless you’d prefer to burn down another bedroom tonight.”
Her jaw tightens. But she doesn’t argue.
Rurik finds us in the afternoon.
I should have expected it. My brother has never been able to resist inserting himself into situations where he’s explicitly not wanted. It’s practically a talent.
“Well, well.” He leans against the training yard fence, arms crossed, grin firmly in place. “Isn’t this cozy?”
“Go away, Rurik.”
“Can’t. Aisling sent me to check on the progress.” The grin widens. “Also, I was bored. This seemed more entertaining than reorganizing my weapons collection.”
Nasyra’s shadow-flame flickers. She’s been holding a small construct—a simple sphere, nothing complicated—but Rurik’s presence has thrown off her concentration.
“You’re disrupting her focus,” I say.
“Am I?” Rurik pushes off from the fence, wandering closer. “Seems like good practice to me. Real threats don’t wait for you to be ready. If she can’t maintain control with a little distraction—“
“You’re not a threat. You’re an annoyance.”
“I can be both.” He stops a few feet away, studying Nasyra with open curiosity. “That’s interesting. The way your fire moves. It’s almost like it’s reaching for him.”
Nasyra’s construct wavers. “It’s not—“
“It definitely is. Watch.” Rurik gestures between us. “Every time you lose focus, the fire drifts toward Zyphon. It’s like it wants to be near him. Very romantic, in a creepy, magical way.”
The construct explodes.
Shadow-flame bursts outward in a wave of purple-black fire. My shadows surge forward instinctively, catching the blast before it can reach Rurik, smothering it against my darkness. The air crackles with discharged energy.
Nasyra stands in the center of the yard, breathing hard, her hands clenched at her sides. Her face has gone red—anger or embarrassment, I can’t tell which.
“Interesting,” Rurik says, completely unruffled. “So emotions are definitely a trigger. Good to know.”
“Get. Out.”
“I’m providing valuable data!”
“You’re providing a target.” She stalks toward him, shadow-flame crawling up her arms. “And I’m very motivated to practice my aim right now.”
Rurik retreats, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin hasn’t dimmed. “Fine, fine. I can tell when I’m not wanted.”
“Can you? That would be a first.”
He pauses at the fence, looking back over his shoulder. “For what it’s worth—you’re doing well. Most Fire-Bringers can’t form constructs at all, and you’re already shaping them. Even if they do explode when someone mentions the obvious sexual tension.”
The shadow-flame on her arms flares bright enough to make me wince.
Rurik vanishes before she can incinerate him.
“I hate him.”
“Most people do, at first.” I keep my voice calm, soothing. “He grows on you.”
“Like a fungus?”
“Like a particularly persistent rash.” The words slip out before I can stop them—dry, unexpected. Something I might have said four hundred years ago, when humor came easier.
Nasyra blinks. For a moment, the anger drains from her expression, replaced by something that might be surprise.
“Did you just make a joke?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“I didn’t think you knew how.”
“I contain multitudes.” I gesture toward the center of the yard. “Again. Try to hold the construct longer this time, even if Rurik comes back to offer more ‘helpful observations.’”
She moves into position, but some of the rigid hostility has left her posture. The surprise at my unexpected humor has cracked something in her defenses—a small thing, barely noticeable, but there.
We resume.
Rurik returns an hour later.
This time, he brings food—a tray of bread, cheese, and fruit that he sets on the fence with exaggerated care.
“Peace offering,” he announces. “Also, Aisling said you’d both forget to eat if someone didn’t remind you. She’s not wrong. Zyphon once went three days without food because he was too focused on tracking a shadow-creature.”
“That was one time.”
“That we know of.” Rurik settles onto the fence, making himself comfortable. “Don’t mind me. I’m just here to observe. Quietly. Like a very supportive piece of furniture.”
“You’ve never been quiet in your life.”
“Not true. Aisling made me sit with my mouth closed for five minutes once. It was horrible.”
Nasyra’s construct wavers but holds. She’s getting better at filtering out distractions—or at least, getting better at channeling her irritation into focus rather than fire.
“You know,” Rurik says after a few minutes of what, for him, constitutes silence, “this is actually kind of beautiful. In a terrifying way. The way your powers dance around each other.”
“We’re not dancing,” Nasyra grits out.
“Aren’t you? His shadows reach for your fire. Your fire reaches for his shadows. It’s like watching two people flirt without using words.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Very repressed flirting. Very ‘I refuse to acknowledge my feelings’ flirting. But still flirting.”
“Rurik.” My voice carries a warning.
“What? I’m making valid observations. It’s not my fault your magic is more honest than either of you.”
The construct trembles. Nasyra’s jaw tightens. I can see her fighting to maintain control, every muscle locked against the surge of emotion Rurik’s words are provoking.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” she accuses.
“Obviously.” Rurik grins. “How else are you going to learn to control your fire when someone’s actively trying to provoke you? The real world won’t be polite about it. Might as well practice with someone who won’t actually try to kill you.”
“Debatable,” she mutters. But the construct stabilizes. She’s learning to hold it even through the frustration, channeling the emotion into fuel rather than explosion.
I catch Rurik’s eye. He winks.
The bastard. He’s actually helping.
Late afternoon. The sun has begun its descent toward the mountains, painting the training yard in shades of amber and gold.
Nasyra stands at the yard’s center, shadow-flame swirling around her hands. She’s attempting something more complex now—not just a sphere, but a shape with form and intention. A blade of dark fire, solidified enough to hold its edge.
Rurik has been mercifully silent for the past twenty minutes, though I suspect that’s more about not wanting to ruin the moment than any newfound respect for boundaries.
The blade wavers. Flickers. For a moment, I think she’s going to lose it—the fire will scatter, the construct will collapse, and we’ll be back to square one.
Then it doesn’t.
The shadow-flame solidifies, edges sharpening, form stabilizing. Nasyra holds a blade of dark fire in her hand—imperfect, flickering at the edges, but real. Controlled. Hers.
Her eyes widen. “I did it.”
“You did.”
Something blooms in my chest—pride, fierce and unexpected. She’s done something that took me decades to master. Something I wasn’t sure was possible for anyone else.
She must see it in my face. The pride. The admiration. Her breath catches, her expression shifting through surprise into something softer, something almost vulnerable.
The blade flickers. She looks away first, dismissing the construct before it can destabilize.
“Well,” Rurik says from the fence, “that was disgustingly tender. I feel like I should give you two some privacy.”
“Then leave.”
“Can’t. This is too good.” He hops down from his perch, wandering closer. “You should have seen your faces. Very ‘star-crossed lovers gazing at each other across a burning battlefield.’ Very dramatic. Very romance novel.”
“I’m going to kill him,” Nasyra says flatly.
“You’ll have to get in line. Aisling has first claim.”
“She can have what’s left when I’m done.”
Rurik clutches his chest in mock offense.
“Such violence! Such passion! No wonder your fire is so unstable—all that repressed emotion, just waiting to explode.” He pauses, tilting his head.
“Actually, that might be literally true.
Have you considered that the best cure for your control issues might be—“
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
“—a good workout? I was going to say a good workout. Get your mind out of the gutter, Nasyra.” He grins. “Though now that you mention it—“
She throws the shadow-flame at him.
It’s not a real attack—she pulls it at the last second, the fire dissipating harmlessly a foot from his face. But the intent is clear enough to make him stumble backward, arms pinwheeling.
“Worth it,” he says, straightening his shirt. “Totally worth it.”
And Nasyra—
Nasyra laughs.
It’s reluctant. Pulled from her against her will. A snort of laughter she tries to bite back and can’t. The sound is bright and startled and achingly familiar.
I go still.
That laugh. I know that laugh. Heard it a thousand times in gardens and hallways and quiet moments stolen between duty and disaster. Death, resurrection, and memory manipulation, and her laugh hasn’t changed.
She’s still in there. The woman I loved. The woman I lost. She’s still in there, buried beneath the pain and the lies, fighting to surface.
She catches me staring. The laughter dies, replaced by wariness. “What?”
“Nothing.” I force myself to look away. “Good work today. We’ll continue tomorrow.”
I leave before she can see whatever is showing on my face. Before the hope in my chest can become something visible. Something she might feel obligated to respond to.
But I carry the sound of her laughter with me long after the training yard is empty.
And for the first time in a long, long time, hope doesn’t feel like a weapon turned against me.
It feels like a beginning.