The morning sun did not reach Lysandra's chamber. Its warmth could not breach the thick black walls of Dranevor Keep, and the air inside carried a faint, metallic tang of volcanic stone. Yet even in darkness, the warmth within her veins pulsed insistently, a reminder of the spark that had awakened the day before.
She sat cross-legged on the cold floor, hands trembling as she tried to center herself. The Circle had been a test, but she had survived it. And yet, survival was only the first lesson in a world where power dictated every breath.
A soft knock sounded on the door. Serath's fox ears twitched as she stepped inside, tail swaying lazily. "The Emperor waits. Today begins your training."
"Training?" Lysandra's voice cracked slightly. "I survived the Circle. Isn't that enough?"
Serath's gaze was sharp. "The Circle tested your spark. It did not teach you to control it. You've drawn attention, little human. Attention in this world is dangerous if untrained."
With a resigned sigh, Lysandra rose. The black silk gown of the previous night had been replaced with a more practical attire—tight linen trousers and a tunic woven from threads that shimmered faintly with protective magic. Even simple clothing here carried purpose.
---
The training chamber was vast, much larger than any room Lysandra had ever seen. The floor was polished obsidian, reflecting the glow of floating fire-orbs above. The walls were etched with runes pulsing softly, resonating with the faint hum of latent magic in the air.
Veyrath Dranevor awaited her in the center, his golden eyes observing like molten suns. He wore nothing but a fitted coat that left his iridescent scales faintly exposed at the chest and forearms, his claws glinting as he shifted his stance. Every movement exuded dominance and danger, yet a subtle patience lingered beneath the surface.
"You feel the spark," he said, voice low and commanding. "Now, you will learn to bind it. Control it, or it will consume you."
Lysandra swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his gaze. "Bind it… how?"
"Through instinct, focus, and fear," he said simply. "Magic responds to the soul. The spark within you will obey your heart, but your heart must learn to obey itself first. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she whispered, though her mind screamed doubt.
---
Veyrath gestured, and Serath released a series of training constructs into the chamber—shapes of fire and stone, illusionary beasts, swirling orbs of energy meant to provoke and test. Lysandra's heart leapt. The illusions moved with a terrifying realism, snapping, lunging, roaring.
"Do not flee," Veyrath said. "Stand your ground. Feel the spark, and let it guide you."
The first construct—a snarling wolf formed entirely of fire—lunged at her. Her instincts screamed to duck, to run, but something inside her flared. The warmth in her chest expanded, flowing outward as she lifted her hands. The wolf froze mid-leap, flames curling back like obedient tendrils.
Her breath came in sharp bursts. "I… I did it?"
Veyrath's eyes glimmered. "You reacted. Not perfectly, but power obeys intent, not skill. Intent is all that matters now."
The second construct, a lion of molten stone, charged with terrifying speed. Lysandra's knees threatened to buckle, her pulse hammering. The warmth in her veins surged again, hotter this time, and she thrust her hands forward instinctively. The construct shivered, sparks flying as its form bent to her will.
A laugh—soft, deep, and dangerous—escaped Veyrath. "You're learning faster than expected. Most humans would collapse or scream by now."
"I'm… trying," she panted, cheeks flushed. "It's… it's hard."
"Hard is life here," he said bluntly. "If you wish to survive, you will make it look easy. If not, the world will teach you a harsher lesson."
---
Hours passed like fire. Lysandra's body ached, her hands raw, her muscles trembling from strain. Each time the constructs attacked, she forced the spark to respond, shaping it into barriers, bursts, and currents of energy. Slowly, painfully, the warmth inside her began to obey, curling and uncoiling at her thought.
Veyrath watched in silence, rarely speaking, but always moving in subtle ways—adjusting her stance with a mere tilt of his head, drawing her focus with a gaze that made her forget the exhaustion in her limbs.
Finally, he stepped forward, bringing the training to a halt. "Enough for today."
Lysandra sank to the floor, sweat matting her hair, lungs burning. "I… I can't… do more."
Veyrath crouched to her level, golden eyes close now, intimate. "Good. Know your limits, but do not fear them. Magic will not kill you unless you allow it."
Her chest heaved, and for a moment, she forgot the fear, the exhaustion, the chains she had worn in her village. In that moment, with his gaze locked on hers, she felt seen. Truly seen. Not as a human, not as prey, but as something dangerous, something alive.
"You feel it, don't you?" he murmured. "The warmth, the fire… it answers to more than instinct. It answers to life itself. You are not weak."
Lysandra's voice trembled. "I… I feel like it's more than me. Like it's… alive."
He let out a low hum, thoughtful. "Good. That is the spark of potential. A human who carries it is rare, but one who learns to master it… can rival beasts, even dragons. Never forget that, Lysandra Elowen."
---
The lesson continued, but in a new way. Veyrath had her practice not just defense, but subtle manipulation—directing the spark to small objects, guiding energy through her fingers, feeling the pulse of life around her.
"Magic is not a tool," he explained. "It is an extension of the soul. Command it, and you command reality. Lose control, and reality commands you."
She hesitated, letting the warmth pulse in her chest. The memory of the raid, the chains, the auction, the fear and humiliation—all of it surged. She clenched her fists, letting the spark explode outward. Objects in the chamber rattled, a shockwave of energy rolling through the air.
Veyrath's claws gleamed faintly. "Excellent," he said softly. "Power without purpose is dangerous, but power felt and lived is unstoppable."
She exhaled, trembling. The spark settled, gentle now, obedient. And beneath her exhaustion, a thrill of power ran through her veins, intoxicating and dangerous.
---
Later, after she collapsed onto a bench, gasping for breath, Veyrath leaned against the wall. "You are learning faster than expected," he said, almost casually. "But lessons are not just physical. You must understand the politics of this world. Strength alone will not keep you alive."
"Politics?" Lysandra echoed, still catching her breath.
"Every interaction is a battle, every smile a weapon, every glance a challenge. This feast," he gestured vaguely toward the halls beyond, "was a lesson in survival among beasts. Today, you learned the spark. Tomorrow, you will learn to wear it like armor."
Her stomach twisted. The thought of walking into the court again, of being studied, judged, mocked—it was terrifying.
"Don't fear them," Veyrath said, his golden eyes catching hers. "Fear yourself. Fear the limits you place on your own power. Break them, and you will survive."
Something in the way he said it—the confidence, the subtle warmth, the danger—made her pulse quicken. She nodded, swallowing hard, feeling both exhilarated and terrified.
---
That night, Lysandra returned to her chamber, muscles sore, mind buzzing. She touched the warmth in her veins, feeling it pulse like a heartbeat separate from her own. It no longer felt threatening—it felt alive, responsive, patient, and strangely comforting.
She thought of Veyrath, the way he had stood beside her, guiding, correcting, yet never touching beyond necessary. His gaze had burned into her, molten and unyielding, and she felt a strange pull in her chest. A dangerous attraction, wrapped in awe and fear.
She pressed her hands to her stomach, whispering into the darkness, "I will learn. I will survive. I will not be prey."
Somewhere in the keep, the drums of the volcano rolled faintly, echoing her heartbeat.
And somewhere in the darkness of the throne room, Veyrath Dranevor's golden eyes flared as he sensed the spark grow stronger—untamed, alive, and belonging to someone who had no idea how much power she truly held.