I didn't get time to argue.
The moment I turned away—
the world shifted.
The air tightened, space folding in on itself before snapping open again. My breath hitched as the ground beneath me changed, the empty training ground stretching endlessly around us.
Cold.
Silent.
Too quiet.
I steadied myself. "You could at least warn me before doing that."
"You wouldn't have come."
I exhaled sharply. "You're not wrong."
The training started immediately.
No warm-up.
No explanation.
Just—
"Again."
I clenched my jaw, lifting my hand as the faint light gathered at my fingertips.
Smaller.
Controlled.
Just like before.
"Hold it," he said.
I did.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
The light flickered slightly.
"Don't lose it."
"I'm not trying to," I muttered.
"That's the problem."
I shot him a look. "You saying I'm not trying?"
"I'm saying you're forcing."
I exhaled sharply, looking away for a second before focusing again.
The light steadied.
Barely.
Minutes passed like that.
Then longer.
My arm started to ache.
My focus slipped—
just slightly.
The light broke.
Gone.
I dropped my hand, breathing heavier now. "That's not as easy as you make it sound."
"It's not supposed to be easy."
"Great," I muttered. "Very helpful."
"Again."
Of course.
I tried again.
And again.
And again.
Every time—
not enough.
Not stable.
Not right.
The frustration built slowly at first.
Then faster.
Every failed attempt tightening something inside me.
Every calm "again" making it worse.
At one point—
I got it right.
Perfectly.
The light formed smoothly, steady, controlled.
Exactly how he wanted it.
I looked up at him.
Waiting.
For something.
Anything.
Approval.
A reaction.
He paused.
Just for a second.
Then—
"Again."
That was it.
Something inside me snapped.
"Are you serious?" I said, dropping my hand. "That was exactly what you wanted."
"Do it again."
"No."
The word came out sharper than I expected.
We both went still.
I let out a breath, running a hand through my hair. "I've been doing this for days. I'm trying. I am."
"Trying isn't enough."
Something tightened in my chest.
"I know that," I said, quieter now. "But you don't even—"
I stopped.
Because it didn't matter.
Nothing I said changed anything.
"Again," he repeated.
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because I didn't know what else to do.
"Right," I muttered. "Of course."
I lifted my hand again.
But this time—
I didn't try to stay calm.
I didn't hold back.
I didn't wait.
I just—
forced it.
The shift was immediate.
The light didn't flicker.
It surged.
Brighter.
Stronger.
Too strong.
It climbed up my arm, pulsing violently, spreading faster than I could control.
My breath hitched. "Not again…"
"Stop," he said immediately.
"I'm trying—"
But I wasn't.
Not anymore.
The energy pushed outward, unstable, cracking the ground beneath me as pressure built around us.
Too much.
Too fast.
"I can't stop it!"
"Then let it go."
"I don't know how!"
It spiked again.
Blinding now.
Wild.
Uncontrolled.
Then—
he moved.
Before I could react, he was in front of me, his hand catching my wrist firmly.
Grounding.
"Look at me."
I couldn't.
The light flared again.
"Look. At. Me."
His voice cut through everything.
Sharp.
Commanding.
My eyes snapped up.
For a second—
everything else disappeared.
"Breathe," he said.
I hadn't realized I wasn't.
My chest tightened before I forced a breath in.
Then another.
The light flickered.
Weakened.
"Again."
This time—
steady.
I followed it.
Breath in.
Hold.
Release.
Slowly—
the energy pulled back.
The brightness dimmed, the pressure easing as the light retreated into something I could hold again.
Control.
Barely.
But there.
When it finally faded—
I didn't move.
My hand still trembling in his grip.
He let go.
"That," he said, his voice colder now, "is exactly what I told you not to do."
I exhaled slowly. "I didn't mean to—"
"It doesn't matter what you meant."
I flinched.
"You lose control like that again," he continued, "and it won't just be the ground that breaks."
My gaze dropped.
I already knew that.
"It's dangerous," he said, quieter now. "Not just for you."
"I know," I whispered.
"Do you?"
I didn't answer.
A pause stretched between us.
Then—
"You don't force it," he said. "You don't fight it."
I looked up at him. "Then what do I do?"
Another pause.
Then—
"You learn to let it listen."
That didn't sound easier.
Not even close.
But one thing was clear now.
Something had changed.
And whatever it was—
he had seen it.