The basin was old.
Hairline cracks spidered along its surface, and the water inside shivered with the slightest draft. It wasn't magical—just a family heirloom, probably passed down since the early days of the settlement. Velira's grandmother used to fill it with rose petals. Now it was a training tool.
Silas crouched in front of it, unmoving, his chin propped on his knuckles.
Velira leaned against the doorway behind him, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. "You've been staring at that basin for nearly half a cycle. Are you trying to scare it into submission?"
Silas didn't look up. "It's teaching me something."
"That it's made of stone and can't speak?"
"That it's made of patience, and I talk too much."
Velira exhaled, amused despite herself. She padded across the room and sat down beside him, tucking her legs beneath her. "Alright, philosopher. Enlighten me."
He turned slightly. "You've been treating your water spells like a blade. Efficient. Precise. Something to stab outward."
She gave a light shrug. "It is a weapon."
"No," Silas said. "It's a medium. It reflects. It flows. It carves, slowly."
"You want me to talk to it?"
He smirked. "Wouldn't be the worst idea."
They sat in silence again, staring at the gentle ripples of the water. The dim room around them flickered with lanternlight, turning the surface into liquid gold and shadow.
---
Eventually, Silas reached out and dipped his fingers in.
The water didn't stir much—just a faint ripple curling outward from his knuckle.
"Don't shape with force," he said. "Shape with understanding. Water's already moving. You just nudge it where it wants to go."
Velira rolled her eyes but followed suit, placing her hand just above the surface. A shimmer of mana laced through her fingers—barely visible.
The basin stirred. Not violently. Just a shift. A curl, like breath caught in glass. She blinked.
"That's… different."
"Because you stopped trying to overpower it," Silas murmured. "You listened."
---
They practiced like that for hours.
Velira wasn't a genius—but she was sharp, and she learned with her whole body. Silas only gave her analogies.
"Don't freeze the enemy. Slow the river."
"Don't blast forward. Collapse inward."
"Water doesn't chase. It waits. It pools."
And slowly, her spells changed.
Where once they struck with brute force, they now formed with grace. A thin stream that curled into a wide circle. A shimmering ripple that burst into fine ice needles, not spikes.
She grinned, half-excited, half-shocked. "I didn't even know it could do that."
Silas stood and stretched, smiling faintly. "Neither did I. But I guessed."
She tossed a cloth at him. "Lunatic."
He caught it without looking. "Visionary."
---
They paused for a break, heading into Velira's kitchen.
It was humble—stone counters, a dented kettle, some dried herbs hanging by the fire pit. She scraped together a simple stew of root vegetables and cured meat while Silas leaned in the doorway, still barefoot.
"Can I ask something weird?" she said as the stew simmered.
He tilted his head. "Only if you're ready for a weird answer."
She smirked. "Fair. Do you ever feel like… this city is all there is? Like we're trapped in someone else's story?"
Silas paused, then walked over, lowering himself to the floor near the hearth. "Sometimes. In my worst moments, I think the sky's never going to change. That we'll keep fighting, training, surviving—and it'll never mean anything."
Velira stirred the pot quietly.
"But then," Silas continued, "I see you cast a new spell. I see someone laugh during a festival. I remember that life doesn't need a purpose to be meaningful. It just needs… people."
She didn't speak for a while.
Then, softly: "You're surprisingly sentimental when you're not trying to blow things up."
He gave a crooked smile. "Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my image."
---
They ate in companionable silence, the kind of stillness that comes from shared growth.
After dinner, Velira leaned back against the wall, arms folded behind her head. "You're good at explaining magic."
Silas raised an eyebrow. "Is that a compliment?"
"An observation."
"I'll take it anyway."
"You ever think of becoming a teacher?"
He laughed, almost bitterly. "Wouldn't last a week. I'd start rambling about entropy and scare off the kids."
"True." She paused. "But you helped me today."
Silas looked at her then—really looked. "You're not like the others. You don't need someone to save you. You just need someone to believe in how you think."
Velira blinked. "Where did that come from?"
He stood and stretched, heading for the door. "The basin. It's still teaching me things."
She watched him go with a faint smile.
Then, after a beat, she whispered, "Thanks."