Azriel was gleaming with joy.
He could finally use magic—freely and willfully.
He stared at the small orb hovering over his palm. It wasn't fire or wind or ice—it was something… denser. Darker. The core flickered and twisted like ink dancing in clear water.
A void.
"So this is… the feeling."
He shaped it from thought, remembering what Lysara once told him:
"Magic listens to the mind first, then the will."
It responded instantly.
Dense. Light. Familiar.
Azriel blinked.
"…It's warm?"
No, not warm.
Familiar.
But before he could reflect further—
CLAP!
"Good, you're not dead."
Nessa opened the door with her usual unreadable smirk. "Now do it ten more times—without losing shape."
Azriel winced.
Of course. Nothing here came easy.
Elsewhere in Caelwyn…
The other three were making massive progress.
Only two days had passed, but the brutal training was already transforming them. Each of them was being stripped down to their essence—then reforged.
Lysara
