The second morning, I made five blossoms before Alice said a word.
Five, one after another, each hanging in the cold air for its three seconds and then going out like a breath on glass. The sixth came out as a crystal and cracked on the tiles. The seventh held.
"Again," Alice said from the edge of the balcony.
For the next hour, that was the whole drill. I stood in the middle of the balcony while Avalon woke up underneath me, and I made one flower at a time. It was a humbling, maddening exercise. Every instinct I had, built over years of fights that ended in hospitals or funerals, told me to do more, faster, harder. Every time I listened, I got a lump of jagged Grey that hit the floor. Every time I tried to force the shape, the balance of Purelight and Deepdark inside it collapsed.
I had to be still. I had to be empty. I had to let the form do the work and draw the power out of me, instead of pushing it through.
