First-Person: Nyra
Dawn arrives too soon.
The air smells of smoke and wet earth, heavy with the ghost of what we burned.
Kael stands a few paces away, stripped of armor, the morning light catching on the faint scars along his chest. The mark there glows faintly, a mirror to mine.
"Again," he says.
My hands tremble as I lift them, focusing on the pulse beneath my skin. I can feel the energy rise — hot, volatile, alive. The ground hums.
"Not so much," he warns. His voice is calm, but his eyes flicker toward the earth beneath my feet, already trembling.
"I'm trying," I mutter.
He steps closer, circling behind me. "You're not listening. Feel it. Don't force it."
His hand settles on my wrist, guiding me. The bond sparks instantly — a rush of warmth curling low in my stomach. I try to breathe through it, to focus, but every time he touches me the power stirs differently.
"It's like fire," he murmurs. "It answers emotion. Not command."
"Then maybe you shouldn't be standing so close," I whisper.
He doesn't move away. "Maybe you shouldn't want me to."
The words slide through me like heat. I turn my head slightly, catching his expression — controlled, yes, but there's tension in his jaw, in the way he's fighting to keep his breathing even.
"Again," he says, quieter this time.
I close my eyes, focus on the rhythm of the bond. The mark flares under my ribs, pulsing in time with his. The air between us grows warmer.
Kael's voice drops lower. "Good. Now draw it back. Don't let it own you."
I pull at the energy, but it resists, clinging like smoke. The harder I fight, the more it burns.
He moves closer still, his breath brushing my neck. "Stop fighting it, Nyra."
My pulse stumbles. The power surges again, desperate to be free.
His hand finds my shoulder, grounding me. The bond hums deep, a low thrum that feels almost alive. For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the warmth of his skin against mine, the rhythm of two heartbeats tangled in one current.
And then — control. The energy steadies, quiets. The tremor fades.
Kael exhales, stepping back slowly. "Better."
I open my eyes, half expecting the world to be on fire. It isn't. The trees still stand, the ground still whole.
A small, reluctant smile pulls at my mouth. "I didn't burn anything."
"Not yet," he says, but there's a flicker of pride in his voice.
We stand in silence for a while. The air between us feels different — stretched thin, charged with something unspoken.
Finally, I ask, "How long until I can control it without you?"
He hesitates before answering. "You tell me when you can stop thinking about me while you do it."
My chest tightens. "That's not fair."
"No," he agrees, voice low. "It isn't."
The bond flares again, soft this time, a quiet reminder that control and desire might never be separate things.