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Still nothing.

“Maybe you’re holding your breath too long,” Branwen suggests. I open one eye and glare at her.

“Or maybe—and I could be totally wrong, but hear me out—maybe… it’s just dirt.”

She rolls her eyes, gesturing toward the mound of soil that’s still the same as it was when she poured it out.

“Of course it’s just dirt. It’s not magic, you are,” she says, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Don’t let it win. You’re more powerful than the dirt.”

I moan, shaking out my hands to work some blood flow back into my arms. “Sorry. I’m just tired and hungry and… ugh. Let’s try something else.”

There’s no way I can go back to talk to soil again. I just can’t do it. If I had to create a list of my enemies right now, this dirt would hold the number five slot.

My father.

Cage.

Daxen.

Vae.

The Dirt.

Branwen’s quick to agree, and we move to water and fire. With sure movements, she uncorks another jar and pours a few inches of water into the bottom of a stone bowl.

“Just heat it a little. Enough for it to steam.”

Exhaling, I repeat the exercise from yesterday, but this time I imagine the fire curling through the water, gently heating the molecules and changing it on a fundamental level, specifically willing it to be gentle, rather than the torrent from hell we experienced last time.

A faint tremor works through my arm and down into my hand. Excitement thrums through me, and suddenly I’m sure—I’m sure—I got it right this time.

Until the water flashes to a boil so fast the glass cracks and explodes into pieces; with a yelp, Branwen drops it and jumps out of the way as scalding droplets fly through the air.

The water hits the floor with a hiss, and vanishes into vapor.

I stumble back from the table, heart hammering, hands curled into fists. I’m terrified to open them, just in case I lose control and the flames shoot out of my palms again.

A whine falls past my lips. Clutching my fists to my chest, I close my eyes and retreat on shaking legs. The urge to run and hide is nearly overwhelming.

Fates, I almost hurt Branwen. I almost hurt my friend. What do I think I’m even doing? I have no control over any of this!

“Idril?”

“No!” I shout, cutting her off. My eyes snap open, and I point a shaking finger at the floor, where tiny rivulets of water snake across the stone. “I can’t. I can’t do it. I can’t—it’s not supposed to⁠—”

She grabs my shoulders and snaps, “Idril! Stop! You’re fighting it. Stop fighting it!”

My moan is pitiful, especially when what I really want to do is scream. She doesn’t get it. Doesn’t understand. Of course I’m fighting it. It’s the only thing I know how to do!

My entire life has been a fight. A fight to survive. A fight against my father. A fight against my Fated Mates. I fight to bite back retorts, to push down my instincts, to ignore these Bonds in my chest. I fight to be heard, fight to be believed, fight to be included. I fight, all day, every second, for some small semblance of peace in the never-ending nightmare of my life.

“I asked it,” I argue weakly, but we both know that’s not the full truth.

“You’re terrified of it,” she tosses back, and when I scoff, she narrows her eyes. “You are. And that’s okay. You have been afraid your entire life. You had to learn to be quiet and small, and that’s so fucked up, Idril, but it’s also your reality. It’s the only way you knew to survive. To fight. But this…? This doesn’t have to be a fight, love.”

There’s something about hearing someone else acknowledging everything I’ve been through that feels so… validating. For the first time, it feels like someone actually sees me. I know Soren and Caelan understand, but this is different somehow. This is someone like me. An Omega. A female.

Silently, I watch the rivulets of water snake across the floor and cry because I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to let go of my fear. I don’t even know if I can.