The days that followed blurred into a rhythm unlike anything Anya had ever known. Morwen's cottage became her sanctuary, a place outside the world, where the whispers of the wind carried more wisdom than any pack elder. The witch, true to her word, began her tutelage immediately, but it was nothing like the physical training her pack's warriors underwent.
Morwen started not with a weapon, but with silence. "Before you can wield power, child, you must first understand stillness," she rasped, her eyes keen as a hawk's. She made Anya sit for hours by the babbling stream, or beneath the canopy of ancient trees, simply listening. Listening to the hum of insects, the rustle of leaves, the subtle shift of the earth beneath her. It was agonizing at first. Anya's mind, accustomed to nervous chatter, rebelled, replaying Rhys's words, the pain of rejection, the fear of the wild.
"Quiet the inner wolf, not silence it," Morwen would advise, her presence a calming anchor. "Let Lyra heal. For now, we listen to the world around you, and the world within."
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Anya began to change. The constant hum of anxiety in her ears began to soften. She noticed things she never had before: the distinct scent of coming rain, the tiny, almost imperceptible vibrations of roots growing deep underground, the nuanced emotions of the small forest creatures that flitted around the cottage – a bird's fleeting joy, a squirrel's sharp fear.
One crisp morning, Morwen led her to a small, hidden clearing where wild moonpetal flowers bloomed, their petals glowing faintly even in daylight. "Touch it," Morwen instructed, her voice low.
Anya knelt, her fingers hovering over a delicate bloom. She reached out, her skin brushing the petals. A faint ripple, like water expanding from a dropped stone, spread through her. She felt… the flower's quiet contentment, its yearning for the sun, the deep connection of its roots to the soil. It was overwhelming, a flood of pure, simple emotion that wasn't her own. She snatched her hand back, gasping.
Morwen nodded, a faint smile on her ancient face. "The first thread, little wren. You feel the Empathic Echo. It is a rare and powerful gift, more attuned to the heart of the world than any brute force. You feel the emotions of others, yes, but also the subtle vibrations of life itself."
"It's too much," Anya whispered, trembling. "It's… overwhelming."
"Like a new stream after a drought," Morwen agreed. "It will be. Until you learn to channel it. To open and close yourself to the flow. You are a channel, Anya, not a sponge."
The training became more focused. Morwen taught her grounding exercises, how to visualize roots extending from her body deep into the earth, anchoring her against the rush of external emotions. She learned how to create a mental shield, a permeable boundary that allowed her to choose what she felt, and when. It was frustrating, painful work, often leaving Anya mentally exhausted, but with each small victory – a moment of perfect stillness, a controlled sensing of a squirrel's joy without being overwhelmed by it – a quiet thrill of power pulsed within her.
And with it, Lyra, her wolf, stirred. Not with a roar, but with a gentle stretch, a slow, deep breath. The raw wound of the rejection still ached, but beneath it, a new muscle was forming, strengthening, pushing outwards.
Anya was not just surviving; she was beginning to understand that the strength her mother had spoken of, the strength Rhys had so cruelly dismissed, was indeed within her. It was just a different kind of strength, one waiting for her to finally claim it.