Days had passed since Soreil's first tentative steps toward controlling the storm within him, and he was already feeling a shift. It was subtle—his movements more fluid, his sword strikes more precise—but the difference was undeniable. Each day of training with Lyra in the secluded valley had pushed him further, and the storm inside him, though still wild, was beginning to bend to his will, just slightly.
But that didn't mean the storm had been tamed.
Soreil stood at the edge of the valley, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, gazing out over the vast expanse of trees. The wind had picked up again, a reminder that the storm inside him was far from conquered. He could feel its pull, like a constant pressure behind his ribs, pushing at him to unleash it.
He flexed his fingers around the sword hilt, willing the storm to remain calm for just a little longer.
"You're thinking too much," Lyra's voice broke through the silence, and Soreil turned to see her walking toward him. Her boots thudded softly against the dirt, her figure a dark silhouette against the brightening sky.
"I'm just trying to keep control," he said, his voice low. "I don't want to repeat last time."
Lyra's expression softened for just a moment, but she didn't reply immediately. Instead, she moved past him to stand beside him, her gaze scanning the horizon.
"You're not going to fail, Soreil. You're too strong for that. What you need now isn't control—it's purpose."
Soreil frowned, his gaze turning back to the horizon. "Purpose?"
Lyra nodded, her arms folding across her chest. "Control is just a means to an end. But without purpose, control will never be enough. What are you fighting for, Soreil? What's driving you?"
Soreil opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. He hadn't really stopped to think about it—he had been so focused on surviving, on learning how to control the storm inside him, that he hadn't taken a step back to consider why he was doing this in the first place.
"I…" he started, trailing off as he tried to put his thoughts into words. "I'm fighting because I don't want to lose. I don't want to lose anyone again."
Lyra's eyes softened slightly, though there was no pity in her expression. "That's not enough," she said gently. "You have to find something more than fear to drive you. Fear won't keep you steady when the storm comes for you. You need something deeper."
Soreil was quiet for a long time, turning her words over in his mind. She was right. Fear wasn't enough. It had driven him for so long, but it was a hollow kind of strength, one that could break under pressure. He had to find something more than that.
"I'll find it," he said finally, his voice steady.
Lyra didn't respond. Instead, she moved to stand in front of him, drawing her sword from its sheath with a fluid motion. The blade gleamed in the early morning light as she held it steady in front of her.
"Then show me," she said simply. "Show me what you've learned."
Soreil hesitated for a moment. He had trained, yes, but there was still so much he hadn't mastered. His control over the storm was still fragile, and there was always the risk of it slipping through his fingers. But Lyra's challenge was simple. It was a reminder that training wasn't about perfection—it was about progress.
He unsheathed his sword, the blade making a soft hiss as it slid free from its scabbard. The metal was warm to the touch, as if it had already begun to react to his presence. He could feel the storm inside him stir, just beneath the surface, but this time he was ready for it. He let the energy come, letting it build up slowly, carefully. He had learned the lesson from the last time—no more reckless outbursts.
He focused, bringing the storm under control, directing it toward the blade. The sword hummed faintly in his grip as the power infused it, the blue glow flickering along the edge.
"Are you ready?" Lyra asked, her stance wide and poised.
Soreil nodded.
Lyra was the first to strike, her movement a blur as she lunged forward. The force behind her attack was immediate, a heavy, controlled blow aimed directly at his midsection. But Soreil was ready. He sidestepped, the wind howling around him as the storm followed his movements, directing the energy of his strike.
He swept his sword up, intercepting hers with a sharp, ringing clash. The impact reverberated through his bones, but he held firm, pushing back with a controlled surge of storm energy.
Lyra pulled back quickly, circling to his left. Soreil's eyes followed her, his grip tightening around the hilt. He could feel the storm inside him, but he kept it contained, focusing on his movements, on each calculated step he took. He wasn't letting the storm control him now.
She came at him again, faster this time, but he was ready. This time, he shifted with her, his body flowing into the strike, using his agility and speed to his advantage. He slashed across her guard, the blade cutting through the air with the speed of lightning.
Lyra blocked the blow, but the force of the strike pushed her back, her feet skidding against the ground. Soreil pressed the advantage, attacking with precision, each swing of his sword calculated, measured. He wasn't just fighting to win—he was testing himself, finding the rhythm of the storm inside him.
The battle continued, the clash of metal ringing out in the quiet valley. Each strike, each movement, was a test of control, of purpose. Soreil could feel the storm inside him, but he no longer feared it. It wasn't a force to be controlled—it was a power to be wielded, one that could bend to his will if he remained focused.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the duel came to an end. Lyra stood a few paces away, breathing heavily but grinning, her eyes alight with approval.
"You've come a long way, Soreil," she said, wiping the sweat from her brow. "You're not there yet, but you're closer than you were yesterday."
Soreil lowered his sword, his own breath coming in short gasps. He was exhausted, but there was a deep sense of satisfaction in the air. He hadn't just survived the duel—he had proven something to himself.
"I'm ready for more," he said, his voice steady, but the fire of determination burning in his chest.
Lyra nodded. "Then let's keep going."
As the day wore on, they continued training, refining their skills, pushing each other to be better. The storm inside Soreil still roiled, but it no longer felt like an enemy. It felt like a part of him—something he could channel, something that was his to control.
And for the first time since the Rift had torn apart his world, Soreil felt like he was finally in control of his fate.