Page 114 of Stormvein

“What about the prophecy? I know part of it.Where shadow leads, storm will follow. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? And it bothers you.”

“Prophecies are dangerous things. I’ve watched people die trying to fulfill what they believed was their destined role. I prefer to make my own choices, not follow a path someone else has chosen for me.” He pauses. “But I can’t deny that this one does seem to predict certain … events.”

“Me, you mean.”

I study him, watching the way he relaxes a little now that the room is empty. The mask is still in place, but it’s thinner now.

“Yes, Mel’shira. You.”

I pour a cup of tea, or what counts for tea here, and hand it to him. He takes it with a small smile.

“Can you tell me more about it?”

“It’s vague, as most prophecies are. But it does seem to mention the tower, you, and your powers. I can ask for a copy to be brought for you to read, if you wish.”

“Maybe after we get back.” I take a breath. “If you’re still okay with me coming with you, I should practice with this power. Just in case.”

He studies me over the rim of the cup. “And if I wasn’t?”

“I’d want to understand why.”

There’s a pause, one where I hold my breath while I wait for him to speak. “You’ve seen how far Sereven is willing to go. I’d rather you stayed as far from that as possible.”

“I’m not asking to fight. But I want to be ready in case something goes wrong.”

“I have no intention of letting you close enough to danger for you to need it.”

“But it could happen, and I need to be prepared.”

“You sound like Mira.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

A faint flicker of amusement touches his eyes, then he nods. “All right. We’ll work with theory and mental techniques for now. Physical tricks can wait until we’re away from Stonehaven.”

For the next few hours, he guides me through meditative exercises designed to strengthen my mental control over the storm energy.

He begins with breathing, instructing me to inhale for four counts, hold for seven, and then release for eight. His own breath matches mine until we’re breathing together. From there, he leads me through visualizations, having me imagine the currents of air around us, the moisture suspended within them, the electric potential building and dissipating with each breath.

Unlike the first time he tried to teach me, there’s a different quality to his instruction now. He’s more patient, more attuned to the subtleties of my responses.

The light that once erupted from me against my will now responds to gentle coaxing, gathering beneath my skin without breaking through. I draw it up my spine, through my chest, into my fingertips, where it shimmers just beneath the surface.

“Now extend your awareness outward,” he instructs. “Feel the air beyond these walls. The moisture. The pressure systems.”

And I do. My consciousness expands beyond the room, beyond the mountain, sensing weather patterns I shouldn’t be able to perceive. Heavy clouds gathering miles away. Air currents shifting direction with temperature changes. The electrical charge building in the atmosphere.

His instruction carries an intimacy I struggle to define. He sits close enough that our knees touch, his voice pitched low. Occasionally, his fingers brush my wrist, checking my pulse, but lingering longer than necessary. Each point of contact echoesthrough me, a continuation of what we began last night, that same connection now channeled through discipline instead of passion.

When his fingers stroke a pattern over my palm, demonstrating how energy can flow through controlled pathways, heat follows in their wake. The memory of those same hands on my body hours ago, flashes unbidden, and the silver light flares in response. Rather than pulling away, he places his hand over mine.

“That, too, is part of your power.” His voice is soft. “Desire, connection. They aren’t distractions but fuel. Learn to work with them, not against them.”

His voice is low and steady, stripped of the razor-sharp edge he uses with others, softened to a cadence that seems to bypass my ears entirely and settle right into my bloodstream. It wraps around my thoughts until everything else recedes. He doesn’t waste words, but when he speaks, the world narrows to the space between us, as though we exist in our own pocket of reality, separate from Stonehaven and the politics beyond its walls.

With each exercise, something shifts. Not only my control over the power, but the boundaries of what I thought possible.

“That’s it,” he whispers when I describe what I’m sensing. “You’re not just calling the storm, you’re becoming part of its language. When you draw the rain, you aren’t creating something from nothing. You’re gathering what’s already present in the air. You give it direction. Purpose.”