The training didn't slow down.
If anything, it became harsher.
There were no pauses between attempts anymore, no space to recover from mistakes. Every movement had to be precise, every reaction controlled before it even happened. The moment I slipped, I had to start again.
At first, I kept up.
Then I forced it.
Then I started losing it.
By the fourth day, my hands wouldn't stay steady. The light flickered more often than it formed, slipping out of control the moment I tried to hold it too tightly.
Nothing I did felt right.
Nothing I did felt enough.
"You're still forcing it."
His voice didn't change.
"I'm not," I said, even though I knew it wasn't true.
"You are."
I exhaled sharply, trying again. The light formed weakly this time, unstable at the edges. It broke before I could even shape it properly.
Silence.
Then—
"Again."
That was it.
No correction.
No explanation.
Just—
again.
Something inside me snapped.
"I can't keep doing this," I said, my voice unsteady now, my breathing uneven from pushing past what my body could handle.
"You can."
"I just failed."
"You lost control."
"I'm trying not to!"
The words came out sharper than I meant them to.
The light flickered again in my hand, weaker this time, before fading completely.
"I'm doing everything you said," I continued, my voice breaking despite trying to hold it steady. "Nothing is working."
"You're not understanding it."
That made something in me collapse.
"Then explain it!" I said, louder now, frustration cutting through everything else. "You expect me to get this right without telling me anything. You just stand there and say I'm wrong every time."
He didn't interrupt.
That silence made it worse.
"I don't even know what I'm supposed to trust," I said, my voice dropping again, unsteady now. "You, this power, whatever this is—none of it makes sense."
My throat tightened.
I tried to steady myself—
but it didn't work this time.
The frustration, the exhaustion, everything I had been holding back for days finally broke through. My vision blurred before I could stop it, and I turned away slightly, pressing my hand against my face like that would fix it.
It didn't.
The tears came anyway.
Just quiet, uncontrollable, slipping through no matter how much I tried to stop them.
"I'm trying," I said, barely above a whisper now. "I don't know what else to do."
For a second, there was nothing.
No correction.
No command.
No "again."
Just silence.
My balance gave before I could recover from it.
This time, I didn't try to stop it.
I just fell forward.
But I didn't hit the ground.
His arms caught me.
Not sharply.
Just—there.
I stayed like that for a second, not pulling away, not fixing it, not pretending I was fine anymore.
Everything felt too heavy to hold together.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I said quietly, the words uneven, breaking between breaths. "And I don't know if any of this is even right."
Another tear slipped down before I could stop it.
"I don't know who to trust."
For a moment, he didn't respond.
Then—
his hand lifted.
His fingers brushed lightly against my cheek, wiping away the tear before it could fall further.
The movement was small.
But it stopped everything.
I went still.
Because this—
this wasn't how he had been.
Not once.
His hand didn't pull away immediately. It lingered for a second, like he was making sure I steadied before letting go.
When he spoke, his voice had changed.
Not sharp.
Not distant.
Quiet.
"I'll tell you," he said. "When it's time."
It wasn't an explanation.
It wasn't enough.
But it wasn't nothing either.
And for the first time since this started—
he didn't push me to stand.
He didn't tell me to try again.
He just stayed there.
And for a moment—
that felt like something I could hold onto.