(Vladford POV)
I woke without pain.
The realization came slowly, like a cautious animal approaching an unfamiliar clearing. I lay still for several breaths, waiting for the familiar pull at the back of my neck—the dull ache, the invisible pressure that had haunted every waking moment for years.
Nothing came.
No tightening.
No resistance.
No leash.
The morning air was cold, sharp enough to sting my lungs when I inhaled, but it felt clean. Honest. The canvas ceiling of my tent shifted faintly with the wind, sunlight slipping through the seams in pale, broken lines.
I lifted a hand.
Fire answered.
Not violently. Not hungrily.
It gathered at my palm like a loyal thing, warm and contained, illuminating my skin in soft amber light. I let it dance there for a heartbeat before dispersing it, my fingers trembling—not from strain, but from disbelief.
So this is what it feels like.
Not power reclaimed.
But power returned.
