Night did not bother Melian.
Darkness, to her, was simply a softer arrangement of light.
She drifted between the trees above the camp, her glow dimmed until she was little more than a pale suggestion against the forest canopy. Below, the cave entrance breathed warm air into the cold night, firelight flickering faintly against stone.
She raised one hand.
The forest answered.
A ripple of warning moved outward - not sound, not force, but intent. Mana brushed bark and leaf alike, settling into the instincts of the creatures that prowled nearby.
Away.
Most listened.
A pair of glowing eyes lingered between the trees.
Melian turned slowly, focusing.
The beast was large - low to the ground, muscles coiled, breath fogging faintly in the cold air. Its hunger pressed outward, cautious but persistent.
She let her presence sharpen.
The mana thickened.
The warning became pressure.
The beast took a step back.
Then another.
Then hesitated.
That was new.
Melian tilted her head.
Normally, this would be enough. Spirits did not need to fight. They existed above such concerns. A warning was law. A suggestion was command.
Yet the beast lingered, muscles tense, calculating.
Melian felt... irritation.
She pushed harder.
The air snapped, vines twisting along nearby branches as her mana surged. The beast flinched, snarled, then finally retreated into the darkness.
Melian lowered her hand slowly.
"...Hmph."
She drifted back toward the camp, unsettled in a way she didn't yet have words for.
Bruce was still awake.
He shouldn't have been.
His body trembled with exhaustion as he moved through forms Derek had drilled into him relentlessly. Each motion was sharp, controlled - not fast, not slow, but precise.
Melian hovered near the cave wall, watching.
Bruce stumbled.
Caught himself.
Adjusted.
Again.
His breath was ragged. Frost clung faintly to his skin, not forming visibly but influencing everything he did - dulling pain, tightening control, forcing adaptation.
Melian had seen Bruce and Vernon train however mostly Bruce.
She had never seen one change like this in anything.
He was not stronger.
He was different.
She turned her attention inward, sensing the way his Qi flowed - uneven, strained, but alive. It bent around injury, reinforced weak points, compensated without thought.
His body knows before he does, she realized.
That was not common.
That was not normal.
That was... unsettling.
Vernon sat further inside the cave, hunched over Alice's notes, fingers trembling slightly as he turned pages. His posture was rigid with concentration.
He winced, pressing a hand to his temple.
Did not stop.
Melian felt the echoes of his mana long before it manifested - the subtle distortions in the air, the faint hum beneath the silence. His presence pulled at the world, whether he meant to or not.
She drifted closer.
His breathing was uneven.
Not panicked.
Enduring.
Melian frowned.
Spirits endured.
They did not strain.
They did not push.
They existed as they were - whole, complete, unchanging.
Vernon's head lifted suddenly.
Melian froze.
His eyes weren't sharp. They weren't confident.
They were searching.
"...That was weird," he murmured.
Her glow stilled.
"What was?" she asked carefully.
Vernon frowned, rubbing his temple. "I thought I felt something change. Like-" He hesitated, then shook his head. "Never mind. I'm probably just tired."
Melian didn't answer.
He glanced toward her anyway, eyes narrowing slightly - not accusing, just curious.
"You didn't... do anything just now, did you?"
She paused.
"...No," she said.
Not a lie.
Not the truth either.
Vernon exhaled, shoulders loosening. "Okay. Yeah. That makes more sense."
He looked back down at the notes, already dismissing the thought.
Melian watched him for a long moment after.
He hadn't seen her move.
He hadn't known.
But he had felt the absence of stillness.
And that unsettled her far more than certainty ever could.
Later, when the camp slept, Melian returned to the trees.
She floated above the forest floor, staring down at the soil - damp, dark, heavy.
She had never touched the ground.
Spirits did not need to.
She extended her awareness downward, sensing the mass beneath her. Roots tangled through dirt. Stones pressed into one another, unyielding.
Weight, she thought.
She drew mana inward.
Carefully.
Slowly.
Not gathering - condensing.
Her glow tightened, light compressing instead of diffusing. The air around her warped faintly as pressure built where none should exist.
For a brief moment, she felt it.
Resistance.
Her descent slowed.
Her glow dimmed sharply.
Pain - sharp and unfamiliar - rippled through her form as her mana destabilized. Light flared wildly, scattering like embers caught in a sudden gust.
Melian gasped, recoiling instinctively.
She rose several feet at once, glow flickering violently before stabilizing.
"...That was," she breathed, shaken, "...unpleasant."
She stared at the ground again.
Nothing had changed.
And yet.
Her core hummed faintly, unsettled in a way she could not ignore.
Spirits did not fail.
Spirits did not try.
She turned away, drifting deeper into the forest.
But the thought followed her.
Bruce adapted through exhaustion.
Vernon progressed through pain.
They grew by enduring strain.
Melian slowed, hovering between ancient trees, the forest breathing quietly around her.
"...Spirits endure," she whispered.
Her glow dimmed.
"But they do not grow."
She clenched her hands - an unnecessary gesture she had learned from watching the boys.
Somewhere deep within her, something shifted.
A desire, still shapeless.
Still unnamed.
But alive.