The next days bled into one another—not gentle or slow, but sharp-edged, demanding, unrelenting.
Day One
Fen trained me from dawn until my knees hit the sand of the courtyard.
Not with the Trial.
Not yet.
With control.
Breathing techniques.
Focus drills.
Exercises meant to pull my magic forward without letting it loose.
His voice stayed steady, but his eyes—gods, his eyes—carried the weight of what he had shown me in the cavern.
He never let his shadows slip again.
Not once.
But I could feel them coiled beneath his skin like a warning he refused to speak.
That night, I passed him in the hall.
He didn’t look at me.
Didn’t speak.
Only: “Rest. Tomorrow will be harder.”
Day Three
I collapsed after the fifth attempt at coaxing magic into a contained orb without losing control.
