“You weren’t punishing it,” she says. “You were holding it steady.”
The warmth of her touch spreads slowly outward.
“You were never weak,” she continues, voice lower now. “You were trained to survive.”
I don’t remember the last time anyone reframed it that way. Silence settles between us again, but it isn’t strained. The fire pops softly behind her. Somewhere beyond the chamber walls, Velcryn hums with distant movement.
“You asked what it feels like when I lose control,” she says. “It feels like drowning in my own skin. Like there’s too much of me and nowhere for it to go.”
Her throat tightens slightly on the last word, and she looks irritated by it.
“There’s so much happening,” she continues. “The interrupted ritual. The poison. The traitor we still haven’t found. My land still isn’t stable. I don’t know where to begin fixing it, and every time I try to focus, my magic responds like it’s already bracing for the next attack.”
She exhales, sharp and frustrated.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
I step closer now, closing the remaining distance between us. Slowly enough that she could retreat if she wanted to.
She doesn’t.
“You’re adapting,” I say. “Your magic was forced into a new pattern when the ritual broke. It’s recalibrating. And you are trying to command it as if nothing changed.”
“And what am I supposed to do instead?” she asks.
“Listen.”
She huffs softly. “That’s vague.”
“It is.”
I lift my hand and place it over hers where it still rests against my chest. My fingers curl around her wrist, guiding her gently.
“Feel the difference,” I say quietly. “Your power doesn’t resist when it meets mine now. It adjusts.”
She goes still. Her breathing shifts. Slows.
The air between us changes in a subtler way than before. Warmth spreading outward from the point of contact. Her magic brushes against mine and then settles. Her eyes lift to mine, startled.
“It’s quieter,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
Something in her expression softens.
“You weren’t trained to do this,” she says.
“No.”
“And yet you can.”
“I learned eventually that suppression is not the same as control.”
She smiles faintly at that. “You’re full of contradictions.”
“I prefer the term layered.”
That earns me a real smile. Small, but real.
