Kael’s breath was steady now. The rhythm of his body had aligned with something deeper, quieter—something within. The soulcore responded, and the affinity revealed itself in form rather than language.

  A concept emerged. Air, shaped into thin, circular blades—discs with sharp edges, forged from compressed flow. Invisible, simple, efficient.

  They required almost no essence. Light on the core. Easy to create, easier to hide.

  And his thoughts kicked into gear.

  He could drop them near an opponent’s feet mid-movement, trip them at the worst possible moment. Place them just low enough to catch a knee or an ankle. Send one flying toward a joint, a wrist, an elbow—anything that could disrupt control or timing.

  Their greatest strength was in how little they gave away. You didn’t react to what you couldn’t see.

  And if he could push it further… maybe even use them beneath his own boots. For height. For reach. A single stable foothold mid-air.

  The possibilities built quickly. His weakness didn’t feel quite so defining anymore.

  Not as bad as I feared.

  Kael opened his eyes, breath still calm. He stood slowly, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. Across from him, Aiko remained seated, her posture upright and composed. She looked like she could’ve been carved from stillness, every part of her perfectly balanced even in rest.

  He studied her in silence. Athletic. Compact. Her frame built for motion, for precision. She couldn’t be more than a year older than him, but the difference in presence was sharp.

  Not in a dramatic way. Just… practiced. Prepared.

  Kael swallowed the flicker of resentment that tried to rise. The kind that liked to whisper about fairness, about stolen chances and gaps in upbringing. He forced it down and replaced it with something better.

  I can learn from her. That’s what matters.

  She tilted the sword slightly, shifting her grip. Her free hand brushed along the flat of the blade—and Arcane lightning flickered to life.

  It didn’t roar. It snapped, rippled, danced along the edge. Pale violet arcs coursed across the metal like veins of living energy, tracing up to the very tip and spilling beyond it, extending the blade by a hand’s length in crackling, unstable current.

  Then she moved.

  Not toward him.

  Her sword whistled through the air in clean, merciless arcs. Her footwork was tight, balanced. She twisted low, then rose with a fluid vertical strike, pivoted into a reverse cut, and drove a thrust forward with pinpoint control. Each motion flowed into the next—no hesitation, no flair.

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  She didn’t fight like a dancer. She fought like someone who had no interest in leaving anything standing.

  Kael stood off to the side, watching.

  There was no pride in her technique. No showmanship. She wasn’t demonstrating. She was simply refining something she had done hundreds—maybe thousands—of times.

  Kael felt something curl in his chest. A quiet envy. The way she moved, the power she controlled—it was the kind of precision born from time, effort, and support.

  Discipline. Space. A blade of her own.

  Things he didn’t have.

  But he shut the thought down before it could root. Envy wasn’t useful. If she was that good, then maybe he could learn something. And right now, he needed everything she could offer.

  She ended the set with a final downward slash, the blade cleaving through the air with an audible snap of residual lightning. Then she let the sword fall still, the energy fading from its surface like steam pulled from hot iron.

  Kael said nothing.

  Aiko glanced toward him as she sheathed the weapon.

  “I take it you managed to feel your abilities?”

  Her tone wasn’t probing—just matter-of-fact, the same way she’d asked if he could fight or walk.

  Kael nodded once, breathing a little easier now.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got something.”

  She tilted the sword slightly, shifting her grip. Her free hand brushed along the flat of the blade—and Arcane lightning flickered to life.

  It didn’t roar. It snapped, rippled, danced along the edge. Pale violet arcs coursed across the metal like veins of living energy, tracing up to the very tip and spilling beyond it, extending the blade by a hand’s length in crackling, unstable current.

  Then she moved.

  Not toward him.

  Her sword whistled through the air in clean, merciless arcs. Her footwork was tight, balanced. She twisted low, then rose with a fluid vertical strike, pivoted into a reverse cut, and drove a thrust forward with pinpoint control. Each motion flowed into the next—no hesitation, no flair.

  She didn’t fight like a dancer. She fought like someone who had no interest in leaving anything standing.

  Kael stood off to the side, watching.

  There was no pride in her technique. No showmanship. She wasn’t demonstrating. She was simply refining something she had done hundreds—maybe thousands—of times.

  Kael felt something curl in his chest. A quiet envy. The way she moved, the power she controlled—it was the kind of precision born from time, effort, and support.

  But he shook it off before it settled.

  She’s here. I’m here. That’s all that counts.

  If she was that good, then maybe he could learn something. And right now, he needed everything she could offer.

  She ended the set with a final downward slash, the blade cleaving through the air with an audible snap of residual lightning. Then she let the sword fall still, the energy fading from its surface like steam pulled from hot iron.

  Kael said nothing.

  Aiko glanced toward him as she sheathed the weapon.

  “I take it you managed to feel your abilities?”

  Her tone wasn’t probing—just matter-of-fact, the same way she’d asked if he could fight or walk.

  Kael nodded once, breathing a little easier now.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got something.”