Elien;
I don't have much strength left in me.
The orb of blue fire still hangs around me, thinner now, and guttering at the edges the way a candle does when fighting against a steady gust of wind—bright enough to hold Balinar back, not strong enough to promise it'll last through whatever he tries next.
I press both hands flat against my stomach and breathe.
"Ground yourself first."
Wilhelm's voice to Elian surfaces from some lesson weeks ago—a quiet afternoon in the training yard, his hand steady on our shoulder while he explained, patient in a way I hadn't expected from him.
I've grown to learn that Primordial magic doesn't answer to panic. It answers to stillness. To intention held clean and unshaking, no matter what's happening around it.
