The rhythm of the road became a meditation. The sway of the saddle, the crunch of gravel under hoof, the endless procession of trees and sky—it was a monotony that allowed the mind to turn inward. And inward was where I needed to go.
In the quiet stretches, when the column rode in comfortable silence and Elara's chatter was momentarily spent, I practiced. Not with grand gestures or glowing light, but with the finest, most delicate touch I could muster. The lesson of the shattered vase in my academy room was a scar on my soul. Power without control was not just useless; it was a beacon for disaster, a threat to the fragile safety I was building.
