The training field changed on the third day.
Not in shape, nor in terrain, but in intent. Until then, everything had been physical, direct, brutal. That day, the elven master made it clear the target would be something else.
"Today is not about strength," he said. "It's about control."
Elara stood in front of me. Her fingers trembled slightly, not from fear, but from anticipation. Whenever mana was mentioned, she changed. Became more serious. More focused. Almost too rigid.
"You," the master continued, pointing at her. "You are talented."
Elara did not respond.
"That is a problem," he finished.
Vespera let out a low laugh. "Finally someone said it."
Elara shot her a scorching look, but didn't argue.
The exercise began almost too simply. Maintain a mana structure active for a prolonged time while moving. Nothing offensive. Nothing complex. Just consistency.
Elara managed it easily at first.
"This is easy," Liriel commented. "She does this all the time."
"Exactly," the master replied. "And that is why she will fail."
I watched closely. Elara's mana was clean, precise, but there was something strange. She always drew more than necessary. There was always excess. She always spent beyond the minimum.
The master began to interfere. He changed the rhythm, the environmental pressure, forced constant adjustments. Elara started to frown.
"Reduce it," he said.
"I already did," she replied.
"Not enough."
She obeyed, but unconsciously compensated with more flow. I saw it. She always did that.
After a while, sweat began to show. Her breathing became irregular.
"Elara," I said quietly. "You're forcing it."
"I know what I'm doing," she replied without looking.
The master interrupted the exercise abruptly. "You confuse will with control."
Elara breathed deeply. "Mana responds to intention."
"Mana responds to structure," he corrected. "Will only accelerates collapse."
He changed the training. Now she had to maintain as little as possible. Almost nothing. Just enough not to lose form.
Elara failed almost immediately.
The structure unraveled, the mana dispersed, and she staggered.
"Again," the master said.
She tried once more. Failed again.
"This is ridiculous," Liriel commented. "She could destroy half this field if she wanted."
"And would die exhausted before the end," the elf replied.
The third mistake came with pain. Elara brought a hand to her chest, breathing with difficulty.
"Enough," I said, stepping forward.
"No," she replied quickly. "Not yet."
Vespera stepped closer. "You don't have to prove anything."
"I need to learn," Elara answered.
The master nodded. "Then listen to your body."
The training continued more slowly. Less demanding externally, more cruel internally. Every adjustment required absolute concentration. Every mistake drained more than it should.
At one point, Elara completely lost control. Mana exploded outward, and the impact dropped her to her knees.
"Elara," I called, holding her before she fell.
She was pale. Her eyes unfocused.
"I crossed the limit," she murmured.
"You ignore limits," the master said. "Talent does not cancel cost."
She struggled to breathe. Liriel knelt beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"You don't have to carry this alone," Liriel said, softer than I expected.
Elara closed her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them, there was frustration there. Not anger. Frustration with herself.
"I always thought wanting more was enough," she said. "That effort solved everything."
"It works until it doesn't," Vespera replied. "Then it charges everything at once."
The master ended the training there.
On the way back, Elara walked slowly. Her body felt heavy, but the real weight was elsewhere.
"I'm not as efficient as I thought," she said suddenly.
"You are," I replied. "Just not the way you thought."
She looked at me. "And if I fail at the critical moment?"
"Then we adjust," I said. "Like always."
That night, Elara didn't train anymore. She sat, reorganizing notes, recalculating flows, redesigning everything from scratch.
She didn't lose power that day.
She lost an illusion.
And gained something more dangerous.
Awareness.
The kind of thing that, on the battlefield, decides who keeps breathing.