Page 350 of Elemental Becoming
The wave crests but doesn’t crash. Instead, it folds inward and settles beneath my skin, controlled and waiting. Mine.
Valen’s voice is low, edged with approval. “You felt it rise and you didn’t let it overtake you.”
I open my eyes, the air still humming with power. “Not this time.”
Valen nods. “Now visualize channeling the Elements separately. Start with fire.”
I focus.
Fire comes first, crimson and gold, flickering like molten silk. It twists with restless energy, but remains contained.
“Good,” Valen remarks, studying the filament of fire moving around me. “Now, earth.”
A strand of green and brown emerges, dense and enduring. It anchors everything around it.
“Air.”
Silver and pale blue follow, shifting and fluid. Never still.Never confined. It doesn’t push. It surrounds.
“Water.”
Dark blue and translucent white weave through the others, reflective and flowing, moving with quiet purpose.
“Now . . . merge them.”
I draw the threads together.
Fire and air coil together, fierce and wild, glowing orange and silver. Earth and water follow, dense and fluid, moving in rhythm. Together, they braid, colors twisting and threads blending. They are no longer separate, but neither are they lost.
They do not become one shade. They move and pulse with a life of their own.
Not chaos.
Balance.
I exhale, watching the tapestry of magics shimmer.
Valen’s voice reaches me, quiet and certain.
“That is what true power looks like, Amara.” He considers me again and adds, “The realm has waited a long time for this.”
I glance at him and laugh softly, unable to stop myself. “Valen . . . that felt incredible.”
A lightness settles in my chest, as though something I’ve been carrying for far too long has finally eased. Everything feels still.
And for the first time in a very long time, so do I.
THE HIDDEN FLAME
FORTY-NINE
I would wager that one of the greatest challenges a historian faces is uncovering the truth as it truly was. Across centuries, from one generation to the next, stories inevitably change. Not always through deliberate deception, more often through small alterations or omissions made for reasons long forgotten. This is especially true when examining traditions families have guarded for generations. The artifact may remain, but the purpose behind its protection is often obscured by the very stories meant to preserve its memory.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Thane and I lounge in the chairs by the evening fire, glasses of wine in hand. The flames crackle in the hearth, casting shifting shadows across the stone walls. The nights have grown cooler, but here, wrapped in warmth and conversation, it hardly matters.
