Sylra stood alone in the training yard, the air around her humming with restless energy.
No laughter. No taunts. No fiery-haired nuisance to push her limits.
(Alira’s stuck in the infirmary.)
The thought pricked, just slightly.
She lifted her hand, palm up, and called the wind.
It coiled obediently, a vortex of invisible force gathering above her skin, compressing tighter, denser, until it shimred like heat haze.
Her focus sharpened.
Smaller.
The sphere shrunk further, the air inside writhing under the pressure, fighting to break free.
More.
A tremor ran up her arm, muscles straining to contain it.
Then—
Release.
The sphere shot forward, a bullet of condensed fury—
—and just before impact, her fingers slamd shut.
BOOM.
The explosion ripped through the yard, a concussive wave of wind and dust, shattering training dummies and kicking up a storm of debris.
Sylra turned her face away, her free arm rising to shield her eyes—
—but her lips curved, just slightly.
Almost.
But not quite.
Not yet.
"It's... not enough."
The words bit the air like winter wind, sharp with dissatisfaction.
Sylra flexed her stinging fingers, the ghost of the explosion still thrumming in her bones. In her mind’s eye, the dark figure from the battle lood—untouched, unfazed, swallowing her attacks whole.
"It lacks force."
Her teeth gritted.
"I need to compress it even more, but—"
A pause. The unspoken truth hung heavy:
I don’t know if I can keep it under control.
Compression wasn’t just advanced.
It was reckless.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Most waited decades before attempting it, until their elent bent like breath, until their channels thrumd with unshakable stability.
One slip—just one—and the recoil could:
Vaporize an arm.
Shatter Essentia channels like glass.
Leave you a hollowed-out husk.
But Sylra wasn’t like most
Wind wasn’t just her elent—it was her pulse. It answered her before she called, moved before she willed it, as natural as blinking.
And yet—
She knew her limits.
Or at least, she thought she did.
Her jaw set.
Her hands lifted again.
And the air began to scream.
Sylra exhaled, forcing patience into her veins as wind coiled once more around her fingertips. Slower this ti. More control. More—
"You’re doing it wrong."
The voice cut through her focus, familiar yet foreign, like a song half-rembered from a dream.
She whirled, braced for mockery—
—and froze.
Towan stood there, his smile warm, his posture relaxed, his expression so painfully familiar it ached.
For a heartbeat, she almost believed—
Then her eyes caught the details:
The too-perfect balance of his stance.
The unnatural stillness in his shoulders.
The way his gaze held hers—not with playful challenge, but clinical assessnt.
Her nostalgia curdled into suspicion.
"What do you an?" Her voice sliced the air, sharper than any windblade.
Towan stepped closer, undeterred. "I an, it’s not bad—but it’s lacking effectiveness."
A pause.
Then, with sothing like admiration:
"Though I’m surprised you’re attempting elental compression already."
His next words were a whisper, barely audible, dusted with bitter amusent:
"It took you longer back in my day."
Sylra’s face twisted—not just confusion, but sothing deeper, sothing raw.
How do you talk to a ghost wearing your friend’s skin?
How do you take advice from soone who looks at you like you’re alesson he’s already taught?
"What do you... advise?" The words stumbled out, uneven, too formal for the boy who used to eat chalk to make her laugh.
Towan’s gaze flickered, a mory surfacing—
—Sylra, older, fiercer, her wind spiraling like a hurricane in her palms.
Hundreds of repetitions.
Thousands.
"First," he said, voice smooth with practiced patience, "gather wind."
Sylra obeyed, her fingers twitching as Essentia surged. The air answered instantly, swirling into a perfect sphere above her palm.
"Okay... don’t compress it yet."
"Why?" Her voice bristled, defensive.
Towan tilted his head, the motion eerily reminiscent of a professor correcting a first-year.
"You have to make it rotate first."
A beat.
"Try to spin it on itself."
(Rotate it... on itself?)
Sylra stilled, her mind racing. She’d never considered that. Compression was about force, about density—not... motion.
She attempted it—
—and the sphere burst apart, the wind scattering like startled birds.
Towan didn’t react. Didn’t scoff.
Just watched.
Waiting.
As if he’d seen this too.
As if he knew she’d try again.
Towan's voice dripped with sothing between amusent and nostalgia, as if watching a play he'd seen perford countless tis before.
"Looks like it won't be so easy, even for you." He tilted his head, eyes glinting with unspoken history. "Well... it took you a while to perfect it too."
Sylra's fingers twitched at her sides.
Her?
Failing with wind?
The very idea scraped against her bones like a rusted blade. Wind was her. It had always answered, always obeyed—
—until now.
She snapped her palm up, Essentia coiling violently as another sphere blinked into existence. She willed it to spin, her teeth gritting with effort—
—and again, it disintegrated, the air hissing away like a sigh.
"H-how?"
The word cracked, raw with sothing dangerously close to frustration.
Towan smirked, slow and knowing, as he laced his fingers behind his head. The pose was so achingly familiar, so Towan, it lodged in her chest like a thorn.
"Tell when you're able to do it," he called over his shoulder, already strolling away.
For a heartbeat—just one—
The set of his shoulders, the careless sway of his step...
It was him.
The real him.
The boy who'd laughed through bloody lips and dared the world to knock him down.
Then the mont passed, and the shadow in his silhouette deepened, and Sylra was left alone with the echo of a challenge.
And the gnawing, unbearable truth:
He knows a version of I don't.
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