Chapter VIII Part II

The grass is cool beneath my bare feet, still damp from last night’s rain. Morning passed quickly — breakfast with the family, Papa kissing Erza’s cheek before lifting her into Talia’s arms, the twins still chewing toast as they trailed after him toward the Crucible. Talia gave me a tired but warm smile, her hand resting on my shoulder before she turned to go. And just like that, it’s quiet again. Just me, Apollo, and Zeke.

Now, though, I stand alone on the far side of the lake. The breeze carries the scent of pine and wet stone. I’ve already stretched. My training clothes cling to me in places, damp with sweat from the morning’s exercises. But now isn’t the time for lightsabers.

I face the lake.

The old book I found yesterday still sits on a cloth nearby, half-shadowed by the tall reeds. Its cover is cracked leather, the title scorched into the front in jagged, curling script — Striking Sun: Principles of Flame-Infused Combat. A Dragonvolk style. A martial art infused with fire magic, designed for scales and wings and fury.

But what caught my eye wasn’t the name. It was the pages. The drawings. Movements interlaced with flame, each step channeling power through the body like a spark leaping between wires.

I want that.

The text talks about summoning circles that needed to be tattooed on the forearms and feet. But I don’t need those. I’ve always been able to wield magic without words, without runes. Papa called it “raw casting.” Mana channeling straight from the spirit. Manipulating the flow of mana like the Force. If I can just—

I exhale. I take my stance.

One foot slides back, the other angles forward. I bend my knees, center my balance. My hands shift into a guard — loose, open, waiting. Like the book described.

I close my eyes and try to feel the flame.

The warmth begins deep in my gut. I know that feeling. I’ve summoned fire before — fireballs, flares, heat bursts. But this is different. I’m not conjuring flame. I’m trying to move with it.

I swing my right arm forward, twisting through my core. My back foot pivots.

Nothing.

No flare. No ember.

I breathe again and try the next movement. Elbow up, turn the hip, step forward with the palm. Still nothing. Not even heat.

Ugh.

From somewhere behind me, a familiar voice pipes up. “Is she dancing?”

“I think she’s fighting a ghost,” the other one giggles.

I stop mid-step and glance over my shoulder. There they are — the twins — perched on the slope above the training spot, hands full of dried fruit and smug expressions on their faces. Papa stands just behind them, arms crossed. Zeke hovers silently near a tree, his photoreceptors dim but fixed on me.

“She’s trying,” Papa says calmly, but there’s a warning in his tone. “No teasing. Not when someone’s putting in the work.”

“But Papa, we didn’t—” Lisanna starts.

He raises a hand. “Nikko doesn’t interrupt you during your lessons.”

They quiet down — mostly — and settle in to watch, whispering to each other now instead of heckling.

I turn back to the lake.

The page in the book described a technique called Ember Palm. The idea is to let fire pool in your center, then guide it out with the momentum of your strike. I can do that. I will do that.

I take my stance again. Lower. Firmer. This time, I hold the breath in my chest like a coal. I imagine heat gathering in my shoulders, pooling in my spine.

I move.

Step. Twist. Drive the palm forward—

A flicker. A tiny burst of warmth jumps from my hand — not a flame, but something. Like a candle’s breath. It vanishes before it touches the air.

I clench my fists, frustration crawling up my throat.

Behind me, Papa says nothing. I glance back. He’s still watching, arms folded, but now his eyes are on my hands — thoughtful. I don’t think he understands what I’m trying to do. Maybe he thinks I’m just trying to summon fire. That’s fine. Let him think that.

What I’m doing… it’s mine.

I run through the sequence again. And again. The twins get bored and start chasing each other near the lake’s edge, and Papa gives them a few warnings before finally herding them back toward the manor. Zeke stays behind, watching and beeping words of encouragement.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

By the time I stop, the sun is hanging low, and my arms feel like lead. My palms sting from failed attempts. My legs are coated in sweat and dirt, my training tunic clinging to my back.

But I did get a flicker.

Zeke chirps at the exact moment the morning sun crests the tree line. His single blue photoreceptor pulses gently in the dark as he hovers above my bed like a persistent, floating alarm clock.

“I’m up,” I groan, already shifting under the sheets.

My muscles protest as I sit up, sore but not screaming like last week. That’s something, right? I swing my legs out, flex my toes on the cold floor, and roll my shoulders. No sharp pain. No stiffness that makes me want to die. Just tightness.

Progress.

I slip on my training shorts and sports bra, buckle my weighted vest—Apollo’s idea—and head outside. The moment I open the door, the early morning air kisses my face, cool and dewy. A low mist clings to the lake like a sleeping dragon, and the world is still except for the ripple of water and Zeke’s soft hum as he follows close behind.

I start my jog.

Each lap around the lake has become easier. Not easy. Easier. I no longer feel like my lungs are on fire by the halfway point. The extra weight on my chest and shoulders throws off my balance at times, but I power through. Footfalls rhythm with breath. Tail swaying for balance. My ears twitch to the rhythm of the wind moving through branches overhead.

Four laps. Then five.

By the time I finish, I’m panting, but I’m not collapsing.

Zeke beeps with approval. “Don’t get smug,” I mutter, pressing my hands to my knees as I catch my breath. “We’ve still got the rest of the day to get through.”

I rinse off quickly, change into clean clothes, and head down to breakfast. The table is a gentle chaos of clinking cutlery, chatter, and Erza flinging bits of fruit at Apollo when she thinks no one’s looking. Papa sips tea quietly. Talia notices my flushed cheeks and wet hair and gives me an approving nod.

“You’re keeping to your schedule,” she says.

“Trying,” I reply around a mouthful of toast.

“Just don’t overdo it,” Papa adds gently. “The body needs time to adjust.”

Before long, Papa herds the twins toward the Crucible, already dressed in their school uniforms and arguing over who gets the window seat. Talia cradles Erza on her hip, bundled up and giggling, and follows after them with a wave. The manor grows quiet.

After my chores—quickly done and barely worth mentioning—I step into the dojo. Sunlight filters through the wooden slats, casting soft beams across the polished floor. I kneel at the center, close my eyes, and begin my Force meditation.

The world narrows. I draw in a slow breath, center myself.

Stack the stones. Five boulders today. Not as heavy as last week’s. My arms stay at my sides; I rely only on will.

The first one rises easily. The second wobbles. The third topples when I reach for the fourth.

I growl. “Again.”

I stack them again. And again. By the fifth attempt, I hold all five steady in the air, even if only for a few seconds. It’s enough to earn a muted clap from Zeke perched on the rail. I smirk.

Next is balance training. I stack two uneven stones by the lake’s edge and stand on them, one foot on each, arms outstretched. The vest weighs heavy on my core, testing every twitch of my muscles. I try holding a lightsaber stance while balancing, the blade ignited in one hand.

I fall three times.

The fourth time, I hold it. Just long enough for Zeke to snap a picture and chirp like a proud parent.

Later, in the dojo again, I sit with my legs crossed, trying to solve the same Force puzzle I've been practicing with. A sphere hovers in the air before me, wrapped in dozens of metal rings and interlocking pieces, like a clockwork flower. I must open it using the Force alone—no touching, no speaking.

I understand now. It’s not about strength. It’s finesse. I can feel the tension points, the subtle nudge and twist of gears. One click. Then another. It’s not open yet, but I’ve made more progress than ever.

I nod once, satisfied. “Tomorrow.”

After lunch, I make my way to the blaster range. The canopy overhead shields me from the sun, and the targets blink to life as I approach. Moving targets. Some vanish and reappear elsewhere. I draw my blaster quickly, snapping off shots as fast as I can.

Today I hit nine out of ten.

That tenth one always dodges. Always.

But nine is better than five.

I swap out my blaster and grab my lightsaber next. The hilt is warm in my hand, familiar. I ignite one blade first. Practice my footwork. My breathing. Then double-bladed. I twirl, strike, pivot.

Apollo has reactivated the IG-100 droid for sparring again. Its long electro-staff hums with menace.

We go a few rounds. I’m not winning—not fully—but I’m not losing as fast either. I parry more. Evade more. My movements are quicker. My stamina lasts longer. I land two glancing blows before the droid finally sweeps my leg and knocks me flat.

Still, it helps. It all helps.

The sun starts to dip lower, casting gold over the lake when I return for elemental training. The book Talia gave me rests on a wooden stool. An old text from grandpa's library, filled with delicate ink sketches and diagrams of flowing air magic—spinning kicks, slides, movements that redirect and flow like wind. It’s not about brute force Talia explained to me.

“Like dancing,” Talia had told me earlier. “Wind doesn’t break. It moves around. It teaches you to be weightless when you strike.”

I’m not weightless yet. I feel like a stomping rhino beetle trying to mimic a breeze.

But I try. I extend my arms. Move as the book instructs. Channel the wind like I do with fire. There’s no summoning circle. No incantation. Just intention.

A few gusts stir.

Not much. But enough.

I use it with my blindfold training next—twisting with the wind to sense incoming bolts from the seeker droid. I still get zapped. But not as much.

When I pull off the blindfold, I’m sweating and breathing hard.

In the distance, I see my sisters sitting under the shade of a tree, whispering. They’re not teasing anymore. Just watching. Occasionally clapping when I land a hit or hold a pose.

Later, I practice Striking Sun again. The book lies open beside me, dog-eared and weathered. I mimic the arm strikes and flowing fire movements I’ve drilled over and over. My fists light with brief flames now. Controlled. Measured.

My kicks are still a mess. Off balance. Not enough drive. But my fists? They burn when I will them to.

I drive my knuckles into the air, flame trailing like a ribbon behind them. My tail whips as I spin. I breathe through the motion.

Strike. Step. Ignite.

Strike. Step. Ignite.

I collapse by the lake afterward, muscles burning in the best way. The water laps gently at the shore. I hear footsteps and glance over my shoulder to see Talia approaching with a basket of herbs.

She kneels beside me without a word and places her hand over a bruise on my arm. Magic trickles in, cool and soothing.

“You’re improving,” she says simply.

“Still not there,” I reply.

“No one ever is,” she says with a smile.

The bath is filled with cold water when I return. I soak in it with a hiss and a sigh, letting the sting numb the soreness. My arms float. My legs throb. I smile.