The blue flame spat and hissed in my palm, a volatile, living thing fighting containment. Embers scorched the packed earth of the training shed, tiny curses dying instantly. Heat radiated up my arm, intense and biting, but the *lack of control* was the true torment – like wrestling greased lightning. Across the shadowed space, Cassian watched, a statue carved from patience and seasoned oak. Only the flicker of the unstable flame and weak daylight through cracked boards illuminated his impassive assessment. The flame clawed defiantly at the air, then died with a resentful pop. Raw, stinging skin and the acrid ghost of ozone were its legacy. Sweat blurred my vision.
A low grunt. Cassian pushed off the wall, fluid despite his size, and tossed a worn water skin at my feet. Dust puffed.
"Again." The word held only expectation.
I wiped sweat, ignoring the angry blisters already forming constellations on my palm. Deep breath. *Focus.* Beneath fatigue, the ember glowed. I willed it forward – a stream, a beam. It surged, wild and eager, pooling chaotically, demanding release. Jaw clenched, forearm muscles corded, I fought to shape it, to mimic Cassian's effortless blue sphere. It coalesced – blue, unstable, buzzing with fury—
"Enough."
Cassian's calloused hand landed heavy on my shoulder, grounding me. The flame vanished. "You'll burn out before supper," he stated, weary pragmatism in his rumble. "Fire's in you. Wrestling it takes patience you haven't learned."
The walk home was quiet: boots on forest path, Storm's rustle through undergrowth. The drake-bird, owl-sized then, hopped beside me, emerald scales catching sun, sharp eyes missing nothing. A soft, questioning chirp. I uncurled my fist, showing the raw skin. Another chirp, like pebbles clicking, then a gentle nudge of his beak before he fluttered to my shoulder, warm and reassuring.
The cabin embraced us: rosemary, slow-cooked rabbit, the rhythmic scrape of Elowen's spoon against the iron pot. Steam promised comfort.
"Sit. Food's ready."
I collapsed onto the scarred bench, cool wood etched with years beneath my palms. Storm hopped down, snout under my elbow, wings fluttering impatiently. A ruffle between his horns earned a purr.
Cassian broke bread, dipped it into thick stew, chewed slowly, gaze distant. Silence reigned, filled by fire crackle and eating sounds. Storm groomed a wing feather.
"Tomorrow," Cassian cut through the quiet, stew-soaked crust pointing at me. "Town."
My spoon froze mid-air. "Town?" Rare trips meant essentials. This felt different.
"Aye. You'll need your own steel."
My breath hitched. Spoon clattered. "A real sword?" Wood was practice. Steel was permanence. A path I felt but couldn't see.
"Short blade first," he clarified, eyes meeting mine – assessment, and something else. Anticipation? Memory? "Dagger. Balanced. Then we see how you handle it." A gesture to my reddened palm. "Better control than today, hopefully." Fact, not criticism. A benchmark.
Sleep fled. I stared at ceiling beams, phantom flame-tingle dancing on nerves. Forest whispers outside. House sounds inside: Cassian's deep breath, Elowen's rustle, Storm's soft cooing asleep at the foot of my bed. Fingers twitched. Steel. Thrilling. Daunting. Storm shifted closer, warm weight anchoring my whirlwind thoughts.
Dawn arrived, grey and insistent. The market square erupted: shouts, cart clatter, Borin's earth-shaking *clang*, smells of spice, beast, bread, stone. Storm, shoulder-perched now, fluffed feathers, hissed warning, eyes darting. Sensory overload.
Five steps in. A garish man, cheap perfume and desperation, blocked our path. Ringed fingers reached for Storm. "Magnificent! Drake-bird! Rare! Thirty silver! Now!"
Revulsion surged. I yanked Storm back. He squawked, wings flared. "Not for sale." Voice firm, protective anger banked.
The man licked thin lips, gaze fixed on Storm like gold. "Forty! Every beast has a price! Think what—"
Cassian stepped between us. Simply *stood*. Broad shoulders blocked sun, shadow swallowing the man. Quiet power radiated. The merchant shrank back, wary. Cassian's voice, low, calm, final: "You heard my son." A nudge on my shoulder. We moved on, leaving sputters behind.
Borin's forge: an inferno. Heat hit like a wall. Air shimmered: coal smoke, hot metal, sweat. *CLANG-CLANG-CLANG*. Sparks flew like angry insects. Borin, a soot-streaked mountain, paused. Wiped brow. Eyes, shrewd and kind, landed on me, Cassian's sword, back to me. A grin split his face.
"First steel, boy?" He boomed. No confirmation needed. To the rack. Finger along hilts. Selected one: forearm length, unadorned, worn leather grip, simple iron guard. Balanced on his palm. "This. Solid. Reliable. Won't fail you."
Tentatively, I took it. Immediate weight. Substantial. Perfectly balanced. *Right*. An extension waiting to be born. Cool, rough leather. Lifted. Swung experimentally. Sunlight caught polished steel, flashed blinding light across dust. Not just metal. Potential. Purpose.
"Twenty silver," arms crossed.
"Fifteen," Cassian countered.
Borin chuckled, rocks tumbling. "Seventeen. For the lad. And your grandda saved my da from that wyvern, '42."
"Done." Coins clinked. I barely heard. Mesmerized by the blade. Tilted it. Reflection: soot, dust, damp hair. But the eyes… harder. Sharper. Less the boy struggling with blue fire. More… like Cassian. Understanding the weight. Startling.
Pell's Leatherworks: small, cluttered. Air thick: tannin, sharp oil. Hides hung. Tools scattered. Old Pell, gnarled driftwood, dark-stained fingers, barely looked up. Cassian explained: sheath, bracers. "Dragonhide scraps?" Pell grunted. Wrapped cords around my forearm, muttering about grain, stitching, "reinforcement for bony wrists." Storm watched, perched high, detached curiosity.
Back in the square, new dagger a comfortable weight at my hip, I expected the turn home. Sun descending, orange and purple streaks. Cassian turned east. Road out of town. Hills.
"One last stop." Stride lengthening.
Companionable silence. Market sounds faded. Crickets chirped. Wind sighed through grass. Storm flew ahead in bursts, scouting. The abandoned watchtower: silhouette against fiery sunset. Crumbling stones, moss-clad, roof long gone. Lonely sentinel. We stopped at its base. Cassian placed a large hand flat on sun-warmed rock. Gaze distant, on darkening horizon.
"Your grandfather," voice soft, roughened by memory. "Held this post. Border Wars. Stood here, dozen others, against raiders three times their number." Pause. Hand pressed to stone. Drawing strength? Memory? "Not glory. Not coin. Needed holding. People needed protecting." Looked down at me. Eyes grave. "He held it. They held it. Bought time." Pat on the stone. Firm. Final. "Crown owes us a favour. Remember."
Silence. Wind whistled through broken teeth. Storm preened on a fallen stone, soft cooing. Weight of history, sacrifice, settled. Dust, dry grass. Not just debt. Duty. Standing ground. Cost of the path.
Last sun sliver vanished. Bruised hues on clouds. I adjusted the dagger. Leather creaked. Steel cool against thigh. Not ornament. Tool. Like the sputtering fire. Like my calloused hands. Path stretched beyond market, training yard. Vanished into dusk. Long. Uncertain. Fraught. But the weight of steel, echo of defiance in weathered stone, Storm's watchful presence… something stirred. Not just readiness. Resolve. Prepared to step onto it. The beginning.
***
Years Passed
The rhythm became breath: wake at grey dawn, Elowen's porridge under her eye, train. Every day. Years.
By fifteen, the training yard was testament. Earth packed smooth by boots and claws. Basic sword forms Cassian drilled with that first dagger were intricate patterns now, practice blade a whistling blur. Muscles burned, lungs screamed, movements instinct: parry, thrust, pivot, strike, recover. Cassian exploited openings, blade relentless. Sweat stung eyes, dripped on earth. Storm, hawk-sized now, scales gleaming, wings powerful, paced. Warning growl rumbled when Cassian pressed too hard, sharp eyes tracking.
Mana control followed physical drain. Fought in silence, often at the watchtower. Violent blue sputters gone. Fire bloomed controlled – bursts, sustained flames. Violet light, clearer, steadier than blue, held minutes, humming potential, though it flickered under strain. Shaped it: dense spheres like stars, beams searing wood, shimmering shields buckling gust but holding weak. Cassian watched distant, gruff nod or sharp correction: "Too much push, not flow." "Feel current, don't strangle." He gave foundation: ignition, containment, rudimentary energy feel. Refinement? Violet manifesting steady? Came only from repetition. Pushing past trembling hand, frayed focus. Quiet hours. Failed attempts. Stubborn refusal.
"Control isn't just holding steady," Cassian rasped one afternoon, watching a violet sphere pulse erratically before I let it spark away. He wiped sparring-sweat. "It's knowing *why* it holds. Feeling current beneath, not just forcing the dam. Purple… smoother. Cleaner. Less waste. Less bite-back. Trickier. Needs finesse, not raw power. Don't chase it before blue is breath." Right. His teaching: bedrock, map. Mastering the territory? My walk. Stumbling frustration plateaus. Some days, energy a wild river against crumbling dam walls. Others, flowed smooth, deep, responding to thought before twitch, violet blooming pure. Storm constant: warm weight pressed against me cross-legged, or perched watchful on stone, calm anchor in concentration's storm.
Path still stretched far. Boy who first strapped on that dagger? Gone. Hardened by routine. Shaped by effort. Muscles defined. Eyes honed focus. Fire demanded mastery. Steel deserved respect. Horizon felt closer each dawn over the worn yard. Trained every day because the power demanded it. The weapon required it. The echo of defiance in weathered