Caelum went to his room. The house was quiet. His mother was sleeping. His father was asleep in a chair down the hall.
Caelum closed his door. He sat on the cold wooden floor. He needed to make the cold light happen again. He closed his eyes. He thought of his first death. The knife. The betrayal. He tried to feel the fear from his mother's room.
He waited.
Nothing happened. The air did not grow cold. The room remained dark.
He opened his eyes. He looked at his hands. The fear he made himself feel was not real. It was a memory. The fear for his mother had been real. The magic needed a real feeling.
He stood up and walked to the window. On the windowsill sat a small clay pot. In it was a single, small plant. Its leaves were brown and curled. It was dying from the winter cold.
His mother's stories came back to him. Stories of Sun Knights who could heal. They used warmth, not fear.
Caelum looked at the dying plant. He needed a different feeling. A warm feeling. He thought of his mother's smile. He thought of her reading him a story, her voice soft and kind. A small, gentle warmth grew in his chest.
He reached out and held his hand over the plant. He did not touch it.
He closed his eyes again. He held the warm feeling in his mind. He did not force it. He just focused on it. He imagined the warmth flowing down his arm and out of his fingers.
A faint, golden light glowed from his palm. It was very dim. He felt a sudden tiredness wash over his body.
He opened his eyes and pulled his hand back. He leaned in close to the plant. He looked at the brown, curled leaves. On one of them, near the stem, was a tiny spot of green.
It was small. But it was there. It was real.
Caelum stared at the spot of green. He had a weapon now. He had a plan.