Page 46 of Stolen Magic of the Deep

I swallow hard as heat bleeds from my skin, the water around me growing warm with exertion. My triceps are burning. My wrists ache. But I won’t stop, because this is the first time I feel like I might actually be earning something down here.

Orion has shown that he needs me. Not in some emotional way, but more so as a king who will use whatever advantage he can get his hands on.

However, from what I’ve gathered, Nyxalene doesn’t operate like that. She relies on skill. Precision. Trust. She doesn’t want a land-dweller tangled up in a fight she’s already prepared her whole life to face. And she definitely doesn’t want to be the one responsible for training me to survive it. It’s obvious she doesn’t trust humans. Maybe she doesn’t know me well enough yet, but even so, earning her trust is something I want. Which is not easy to admit. Impressing her, proving I belong down here, that matters to me.

I push through the burn in my arms, feeling a tight pull in my lower back. My tail flicks just enough to hold me steady. My movements sharpen, becoming cleaner. My wrists carve through the water repetitively, until they start moving from instinct, not thought.

When I switch hands without needing to be told, I catch the smallest flicker in Nyxalene’s expression. Not praise or approval, but a shift. And for now . . . that’s enough.

She watches me as I finish the sequence and gives a small nod.

“That wasn’t terrible,” she says, which might be the closest thing to a compliment I’m going to get. “It will do.”

She circles me slowly, arms still folded, posture sharp. “You will repeat that sequence every day, until you have it down completely, before I will teach you anything else. It must become second nature to you. A blade is only as strong as the body that wields it.”

I nod, still catching my breath.

She moves to the center of the space again and gestures for me to follow. “Next, we will focus on precision. You will repeat the same upper body sequence you were just performing, but this time, you will use your tail to move around the floor in a controlled pattern. Keep your tail tucked tightly beneath you in between transitions. Letting it drag or flail will throw off your balance and waste your energy.”

Great, because this wasn’t hard enough already. I adjust my posture and try to mirror her stance. This isn’t about muscle anymore. This is about discipline. Proving I can handle every inch of this new form—even the parts I haven't figured out how to trust yet.

Nyxalene demonstrates the movements, her body fluid as she spins and strikes, twirling through the water in ways I would've never achieved on land. There’s grace to her technique, but it’s not softness. Every movement has purpose, force, and lethal intent.

Watching her, I can’t help but wonder. Why did humans ever stop training these parts of our bodies? This seems way more efficient than going to the gym.

I do as she instructs, repeating the sequence slowly so she can correct me where needed. Our lower halves are completely different, so I have to adjust—tucking and tightening my coils in a way that makes sense for my form.

“Placing your tail there will cause you to lose balance once you shift to the next set of stances,” she notes, her tone even but not sharp. “Try coiling it tighter underneath you right before you shift.”

Polite. Constructive. Maybe even . . . encouraging?

I nod and realign my stance. I never expected, in all my life, that I’d be getting battle lessons from a siren in an underwater kingdom. My degree in marine biology has officially surpassed every expectation I ever had for how far it would take me.

I continue to repeat the movements as Nyxalene circles the room, sharp-eyed and silent, tracking every motion I make. More time passes, and more of my muscles ache. My shoulders, my wrists, the base of my spine, every part of me is screaming. For the first time, I fully understand the phrase I’ve reached my limit, because I have. But I won’t quit. I fight through the exhaustion. I need her to approve. I can’t explain why. I just do.

I’m mid-strike when Orion returns to the room alone. Lord Zevrin is no longer with him.

“There have been no updates on new movements after the Redlock Chamber incident,” Orion announces, eyes scanning the space before settling briefly on me. “What is the status of her progression?”

Nyxalene doesn’t hesitate. “She's handling the movements well. Her balance is strong considering how new the form is. But . . .” She glances at me, then back to him. “I believe she needs to see it done by someone who shares the same form. She's adjusting instinctively, but she has no frame of reference for what it should look like.”

My eyes track him, bracing for seriousness based on Nyxalene’s request. Instead, a sharp grin spreads across his face, and I freeze. There’s a flicker of something eager behind it, like he’s been waiting for this moment.

Nyxalene notices. She exhales softly and brushes a few strands of hair away from her face. “With your permission, I would like a brief moment to stretch and eat. I've been circling this chamber longer than I would have liked.”

Orion nods. “Take your time.”

She doesn’t say anything else as she dips her head once and glides toward the door, disappearing through the soft shimmer of current trailing in her wake.

Orion floats in place for a moment, watching me with that same grin tugging at his mouth. Arms crossed loosely, a teasing light dances across his eyes.

“So,” he says, slow and amused. “You survived a Nyxalene training session without crying. Impressive.”

I roll my eyes. “I still might. I’m now stuck with you.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles, shifting into a wide stance with one smooth flick of his tail—spine tall, arms raised in fluid precision. He mirrors the movements I’ve been practicing, but with a refinement that makes it look effortless.

“You're coiling too tightly,” he says.