Morning arrived without ceremony.
No bells. No announcements. Just a subtle shift in the light filtering through the warded windows and the quiet pull of the bond tightening, alert and insistent. It woke me before my body was ready, dragging me out of shallow, restless sleep.
Lucien was awake.
The realization came before sound, before thought. The bond hummed low and steady in my chest, like a thread drawn taut. I sat up slowly, stretching stiff muscles, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed.
The weakness was still there, but muted.
Controlled.
I hated that word.
I dressed in the simple clothes left for me—dark fabric, flexible, designed for movement rather than comfort. When I stepped into my boots, the wards around the room dimmed slightly, as if acknowledging my readiness.
The door opened before I reached it.
Lucien stood on the other side.
"You're late," he said.
I blinked. "I woke up five minutes ago."
"Too slow," he replied, turning on his heel. "Follow."
I bit back a retort and did exactly that.
The training hall lay deep within the palace, far from the Council chambers and public corridors. Thick stone walls enclosed a wide circular space etched with layered spellwork—containment runes, suppression sigils, and ancient markings I didn't recognize.
The moment I stepped inside, my magic reacted.
It surged, restless and alert, brushing against the wards like a predator testing a cage.
Lucien noticed.
"Good," he said. "It's awake."
"I never sleep," I muttered.
He turned to face me. "That's your problem."
Before I could respond, he raised a hand.
The air shifted.
Pressure slammed down on me—not painful, but heavy, compressing my magic inward. My instincts screamed to fight it, to push back with everything I had.
I did.
The backlash was immediate.
Pain flared along the bond, sharp and unforgiving. I gasped, dropping to one knee as my power lashed wildly, rebounding off the wards in violent ripples.
Lucien lowered his hand.
The pressure vanished.
I sucked in air, heart hammering. "You did that on purpose."
"Yes."
"You're trying to break me."
"I'm trying to teach you," he corrected. "Breaking happens when you refuse to learn."
I pushed myself upright, fury burning hot. "Then explain. Don't just attack me."
Lucien studied me for a moment, then nodded once. "Fair."
He gestured to the center of the hall. "Your magic is reactive. Emotional. It responds to threat, fear, instinct."
"So does everyone's," I shot back.
"Not like yours," he said. "Yours doesn't wait for permission."
That stung because it was true.
"You survived because your magic is powerful," he continued. "You'll die if you don't learn restraint."
I crossed my arms. "And restraint means letting you control it."
"No," Lucien said. "It means you controlling it—without fighting the bond."
I scoffed. "Easy for you to say."
"Then let's make it difficult."
He stepped closer, stopping just within that invisible range where the bond hummed warm and alert. "Reach for your magic," he instructed. "Slowly."
I hesitated, then did as told.
The familiar chaos stirred beneath my skin, coiling and pressing outward. I focused on it, trying not to force, not to suppress.
Lucien's presence steadied the surge.
Not dominating.
Guiding.
"Feel that?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," I admitted.
"That's alignment," he said. "Not obedience."
The distinction mattered more than I wanted to admit.
"Now," he continued, "shape it."
I tried.
The magic resisted, flaring unpredictably, sparks of raw energy snapping through the air. The wards shimmered in response.
"Too fast," Lucien said. "You're pushing."
"I don't know how not to," I snapped.
He stepped closer still, his voice dropping. "Then stop trying to command it."
I looked up at him. "Then what do I do?"
"Listen."
I closed my eyes.
For the first time in my life, I didn't grab at my magic. I let it breathe. Let it move on its own terms.
The chaos softened.
Condensed.
The energy settled into something denser, quieter—no less powerful, but contained.
I opened my eyes.
A sphere of controlled light hovered above my palm.
My breath caught.
Lucien watched intently. "Good," he said. "Hold it."
I did.
Seconds stretched. Sweat beaded at my temples, but the magic didn't lash out. It stayed. Obedient—not to him, but to me.
Something warm stirred in my chest.
Pride.
Then the bond flared.
Pain shot through me as Lucien stepped back abruptly, widening the distance. The sphere shattered, magic dispersing violently.
I cried out, stumbling.
Lucien was at my side instantly, grip firm on my arm. "Enough."
I yanked away. "Why did you do that?"
"Because you need to understand the limits," he said. "In battle, you won't always have ideal conditions."
I glared at him. "You could have warned me."
"And you could have failed without dying," he replied. "Consider this mercy."
I hated that he was right.
We trained for hours.
Control. Release. Distance. Reconnection.
Every exercise pushed the bond in different ways—stretching it, testing its responses. Sometimes the pain was sharp. Sometimes it was dull and insistent. Always, it was informative.
By the time Lucien finally called an end, my limbs trembled with exhaustion.
I collapsed onto the stone floor, chest heaving.
Lucien crouched beside me. "You adapted faster than expected."
"Congratulations," I muttered. "You broke me efficiently."
A pause.
"You weren't broken," he said. "You learned."
I looked at him then—really looked. At the lines of strain he never acknowledged. At the control that bordered on isolation.
"Did anyone ever teach you like this?" I asked quietly.
His jaw tightened. "No."
That answered more than words ever could.
He stood, offering a hand.
I hesitated, then took it.
The contact sent a quiet pulse through the bond—not painful. Not overwhelming.
Steady.
As he pulled me up, our eyes met.
"This doesn't make us allies," I said.
"No," Lucien agreed. "But it keeps us alive."
As we left the training hall, the bond settled into a low, constant hum—no longer screaming, no longer silent.
Balanced.
And deep in my chest, beneath the exhaustion and anger, a single, dangerous thought took root:
If I could learn to control this bond—
I might one day decide how it ends.