The hall slowly emptied after his father's decree, but Eryndor remained standing until the last voice faded. His cousins left with smug glances and hushed boasts about tomorrow. He caught one of them muttering something about "the fragile one breaking first."
Eryndor only smiled faintly and left without a word.
He returned to his quarters, a simple stone room tucked deeper into the estate. The moment the door shut behind him, the quiet returned, and with it came the whisper of his new power. Sparks tingled faintly across his fingertips as he flexed his hands, the air around him bending ever so slightly.
He sat cross-legged, closing his eyes.
Practicing affinities was different from swinging fists or striking dummies. Martial forms strengthened the body, but affinity training required balance between mind, body, and spirit. Most people in the Spark Tier repeated simple exercises: drawing their element into form, holding it as long as possible, then dispersing it before their control collapsed. Each failure burned at their energy and spirit, leaving exhaustion that could take hours—or even days—to mend.
It was slow, punishing work.
Eryndor, however, had an advantage. His grandfather's brutal training in the Eightfold Flow had carved into him a rhythm most lacked—the ability to control his breathing, pace his movements, and bend through pain without breaking form. Where others strained and forced their elements, he let the current guide him.
He began simply. Lightning first. He visualized the current running through his veins, not as something foreign, but as part of him. Sparks flickered across his palm, unstable at first, then steadier. His breathing matched the rhythm—inhale, hold, exhale—and the sparks sharpened, forming a faint thread of light across his knuckles.
The wind followed naturally. He shifted his breathing lighter, faster, his body loosening as though weightless. The air around him stirred, brushing against his skin, wrapping him in a faint current. Where lightning was sharp, demanding, wind was subtle, coaxing. Two opposites, yet when he moved his hand, they blended—the current of wind feeding the arc of sparks.
For a moment, he held both. The first step toward harmony.
But he knew better than to push too far. Tomorrow mattered. Overexertion now could cripple him before the competition even began.
He let the energies fade, allowing his body to return to stillness. The ache from Kael's strikes still lingered, but he guided his breathing into the recovery rhythm his grandfather had taught him—a form of meditation that directed energy through the body's inner channels, easing pain and accelerating healing. It wasn't magic, not truly, but discipline born of years of punishment and survival.
Already, the throbbing in his ribs dulled, the tightness in his shoulders easing. He would not be perfect by tomorrow, but he would be ready.
Opening his eyes, Eryndor stared at his reflection in the polished steel plate leaning against the wall. The pale boy staring back at him looked the same as ever—thin, sharp-eyed, almost delicate. But beneath the skin, he felt the storm.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, lips curving into a grin. "Let's see if they still call me fragile."
He extinguished the candle by his bed, lay back, and closed his eyes. Outside, the estate was quiet, but inside his veins, lightning whispered, and wind stirred. The storm waited for dawn.