-Alexia-
It's been a month since I walked away.
A month of silence, of distance—of nights where I almost turned back, only to remind myself why I couldn't. Because if I'd stayed, I would've shattered.
Instead, I came here. Back to the farm, my mother left me. The one I swore I'd never return to.
The fields were wild when I arrived, waist-high grass swallowing the fences, the barn sagging like an older man's shoulders. The house creaked with emptiness. It hurt, stepping onto this land again—but it also felt like breathing after drowning, like touching something that was still mine.
Now, between Virelaya's brutal lessons, I mend what I can. I clear the brush from the paths—patch splintered wood. Gather stones from the fields and stack them into walls. It's slow work, humbling work—but with every broken board fixed, every weed pulled, I feel a piece of myself settle.
But the garden I can't touch. Not yet.
It sits at the edge of the farmhouse, a tangle of wildflowers and herbs that shouldn't have survived this long, but somehow did. My mother planted it, coaxing life from the soil with the same hands that first taught me to call the wind, to listen for the heartbeat of the earth. The garden hums with her memory, with the magic she passed to me.
And sometimes, when the silence stretches too far, I think of Zeus. The way he vanished the moment my magic was bound, as if torn away with it. A month has passed, and still—no pawprints in the dirt, no shadow at my side. I tell myself he'll return when I'm whole again, when I've proven I can carry this power without breaking. But the empty space he's left is its own kind of ache, one I try not to touch too often.
I tell myself I'll restore it last, so that the roof and fences matter more. But really, I'm not ready. Not ready to kneel in that dirt and feel her absence pressing down like a weight. Not prepared to face the truth that the woman who gave me my gift is gone, and I'm still fumbling in the dark, trying not to break under its weight.
Virelaya found me before despair could. Or maybe she was waiting all along—watching, knowing I'd need her. She told me my powers aren't just gifts; they're burdens I have to learn to carry without breaking. Since then, every day has been about stripping me down and building me back up.
Nature magic comes easiest—roots and wind, the steady pulse of the earth beneath my feet. That's who I am. But chaos? Chaos is a wildfire. It doesn't bend. It burns, claws, devours. And Virelaya refuses to let me fear it.
"Balance them, or they'll consume you," she says.
And I try. Gods, I try.
But every time my power sparks, I think of them.
Of Finn's unshakable devotion.
Of Jasper's quiet sorrow.
Of Soren's strength, holding everything together.
Even of Asher—because hatred is its own kind of tether.
I left to find myself. Yet no matter how far I run, I can't unmake the bond.
And if I'm honest, leaving Finn is the wound that won't heal. The bond I share with him aches constantly, a pull that never lets go. I tell myself this distance is for him—that he deserves to finish school, to breathe without my chaos suffocating him. But every night, when exhaustion sets in, it's his face I see. And that pain cuts deeper than any strike Virelaya has ever dealt me.
I sit on the front porch in the heavy hush of mid-afternoon, a glass of tea cooling in my hand. The cicadas hum low in the distance, but all I can hear is the restless thrum of my own thoughts. It feels wrong without him here. For so long, Zeus was my constant—guardian, companion, tether. Now the steps creak under only my weight, and the world feels emptier for it.
When Virelaya steps out of the shadows, I know what she's come for.
"It is time for your lesson, my dear," she says, her voice calm, steady—too steady.
A sigh slips out of me. I set the cup down carefully, as if stalling, and push myself to my feet. "When will these lessons end?" I ask, though the question tastes more like a plea.
"When I feel you are ready." Her answer is soft, unyielding. "And today, we will not be working in the front yard."
I stop on the step, my chest tightening. "We aren't? Then… where?"
Her eyes meet mine with quiet certainty. "I believe you already know."
My breath catches. The air feels colder all at once. "No. I won't go there." My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, but my hands are trembling. "I know I've improved—I can hold the balance now. But if I lose control, if I—" I swallow hard. "I won't destroy what she poured her heart into. I can't."
"You won't," Virelaya replies, her tone softer now, almost tender. "You are not the same girl you were a month ago. You are more your mother's daughter than your father's."
Her words hollow me out. My gaze drifts to the yard around us, to the pieces I've rebuilt with aching hands over these past weeks. My throat tightens, and when I close my eyes, I see her—the way she used to walk among the flowers, humming to herself, her magic woven into every root and leaf.
A long breath shudders out of me. I know Virelaya is right. I know what I need to face.
"Fine," I whisper, forcing my feet to move, though each step feels weighted with dread. "Let's go. Before I change my mind."
And I turn toward the garden.