They let him rest for the remainder of the day.
No training. No questions. Ren left him alone after a brief, unreadable glance, and Selina checked on him twice before nightfall without saying much beyond asking if he needed water. Theomar stayed longer, seated nearby, presence steady and grounding, but even he did not push Midarion to speak.
His body felt wrong.
Not injured—emptied.
Like a vessel that had been filled too quickly and then drained just as violently, leaving behind a faint echo of pressure in his bones. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again: that instant where something vast had surged outward through him, answering something deeper than fear or anger.
He slept lightly as night settled over the Black Post.
Dreams came and went without shape. Heat. Wind. A thousand faint vibrations like invisible threads brushing against his skin.
Then he woke.
Not suddenly. Not in fear.
Awareness returned to him the way a tide recedes—slow, deliberate. The room was dark, lit only by a thin spill of moonlight through the narrow window. His breath was steady. His heart calm.
And he was not alone.
She stood near the foot of the bed.
Not solid. Not entirely light either.
Filandra looked the way she always had in his memory and yet subtly different, as if his eyes could now perceive more of her truth. Her form shimmered faintly, composed of countless luminous threads woven together, stretching and reconnecting in constant motion. Some of them extended beyond her silhouette, disappearing into nothingness, as though anchored somewhere far beyond the room.
"Good evening, Midarion," she said gently.
His throat tightened.
For a heartbeat, he could not speak. Then his breath hitched, and the sound that escaped him was closer to a sob than a word.
"You're—" He swallowed hard. "You're here."
"I never left," Filandra replied.
The simplicity of it broke something in him.
Tears welled up before he could stop them, blurring his vision. He sat up, hands trembling, suddenly aware of how small the room felt compared to the weight pressing against his chest.
"You were gone," he said hoarsely. "For three years. I thought—"
"I know," she said softly.
He laughed weakly, bitter and broken all at once. "No. You weren't there. I was alone."
Filandra stepped closer. The threads that composed her form hummed faintly, resonating with something inside him.
"I heard every breath," she said. "I saw every fall. I felt every moment your heart nearly stopped."
His chest constricted.
"The jungle," she continued. "The hunger. The experiments. The night you almost didn't wake up." Her gaze did not waver. "I was there."
Midarion covered his face with his hands.
"Then why?" His voice cracked. "Why didn't you help me? Why didn't you say anything?"
For a moment, Filandra said nothing.
When she spoke again, her voice carried no defensiveness—only quiet resolve.
"Because I did not want to become your crutch," she said. "Power given too early hollows the one who receives it. I wanted you to earn yourself first."
He shook his head violently. "I was a child."
"You were a survivor."
The words landed with weight.
"You endured," Filandra continued. "You adapted. You learned pain without surrendering to it. Had I intervened every time you fell, you would have mistaken my strength for your own."
Tears slid down his cheeks unchecked now.
"I was so tired," he whispered. "So alone."
Filandra knelt before him, her form lowering until her eyes met his.
"You were never unseen," she said. "And now, you are no longer unheard."
Something in his chest finally gave way. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead into the space where her shoulder would have been if she were fully solid. The threads brushed his skin, warm and resonant, and for the first time in years, the silence inside him eased.
They stayed like that for a while.
When his breathing finally steadied, he pulled back and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, embarrassed.
"Why me?" he asked quietly. "Why did you choose me? My Kosmo was barely there. I was… nothing."
Filandra smiled, a subtle curve of light and motion.
"It was too soon then," she said. "And it is still too soon now."
His brow furrowed. "That's not an answer."
She chuckled softly. "It is the only honest one I can give. You will understand in time. When the question no longer comes from doubt, but from clarity."
He sat with that for a moment.
"And now?" he asked. "What happens now?"
"Now," Filandra said, rising to her feet, "you must learn to wield me."
His heart skipped. "You mean—your power?"
"Our power," she corrected gently. "But be warned, Midarion. Every resonance has a cost."
A chill ran down his spine.
"What kind of cost?"
Filandra's threads began to fade, unraveling into faint strands of light.
"Good night, Midarion," she said, her voice already distant.
"Wait—!" He reached out instinctively.
She vanished.
The room fell silent once more.
Morning came too quickly.
Midarion found Theomar and Ren together near the training grounds, voices low. Both looked up as he approached, and Theomar's expression shifted subtly at the sight of him—curiosity, then confirmation.
"She came back, Filandra came back." Midarion said without preamble.
Ren raised an eyebrow. "Your spirit."
Midarion nodded. "Yes. We talked."
Theomar exhaled slowly. "I suspected as much."
Ren crossed his arms. "Spirits respond to power. Kosmo is power. You crossed a threshold."
Midarion hesitated. "Do you… have spirits?"
Ren snorted. "Of course."
"And you?" Midarion asked Theomar.
Theomar's gaze flickered, just for an instant. "Yes."
Midarion leaned forward. "Is Grey—"
"No," Theomar said quickly. Then, more slowly, "Grey is… something else."
The hesitation lingered.
They did not elaborate.
Training resumed that day.
Theomar guided him personally, correcting his stance, his breathing, his focus. He spoke of Kosmo not as force, but as presence—something that must be invited, not seized.
Midarion failed again and again.
His Kosmo flickered into existence for a heartbeat, then vanished. When it did surface, the strain was immediate and overwhelming. More than once, he collapsed unconscious, waking minutes later with Theomar crouched nearby, patient and unjudging.
"Again," Theomar said each time.
By the end of the first day, Midarion managed three seconds.
Three.
It felt like eternity and nothing at all.
The second day was worse—and better.
He failed more often than he succeeded. Eight times out of ten, his body simply refused. But when it did answer, the sensation was unmistakable: a dense pressure coiling behind his ribs, spilling outward just enough for him to feel its edge.
Every success ended the same way—with darkness.
On the afternoon of the second day, Theomar led him away from the Post.
They walked until the sounds of activity faded completely, until even the forest seemed to hold its breath.
"No one here," Theomar said. "Watch."
He raised his hand.
Closed it.
Then extended a single finger.
Midarion felt it before he saw it.
Kosmo gathered around Theomar's finger, dense and compressed, grey in color, vibrating with such intensity that the ground beneath them began to tremble. The air itself warped, bending subtly inward, as though drawn toward a gravitational point.
Midarion couldn't breathe.
That was it?
Just a finger?
"This is control," Theomar said calmly. "And restraint."
He released it.
The pressure vanished instantly.
Midarion stared at him, stunned. "That… that can't be real."
Theomar laughed. "In Astraelis? I'm not exceptional. There's strong individuals there."
"That's impossible," Midarion said. "No one can be stronger than that."
Theomar smiled—not unkindly. "You'll see."
They returned to the Black Post as dusk settled.
Midarion was still reeling when he noticed the figure near the entrance.
short. Familiar. Impossible.
A silhouette he hadn't seen in two years.
His heart stuttered.
And the world seemed to narrow around that single shape.