The second day was a slow, excruciating unraveling. The holy power wasn't a storm yet, but the air was thick with the promise of lightning. It hummed in my bones, a constant, low-grade current that made my teeth ache. The smallest emotions—a spike of fear when the guard's shadow passed the door, a flicker of hope at a distant shout—threatened to breach the surface.
A thin film of golden sweat beaded on my temples after a particularly strong surge of anxiety. I scrubbed it away with my sleeve, but the fabric came away shimmering. My control was becoming a sieve.
I had to move to expend this building energy somehow. The room was too small. I began pacing, a caged animal tracing the same path on the cold stone. With each turn, I performed the basic stances from my dawn training—slow, controlled movements meant to channel energy through the body. But the power within me was not a neutral elemental force; it was sentient, reactive light. The stances became a dance with a wild partner. As I shifted my weight, a pulse of gold would flash at the apex of a movement, hanging in the air for a half-second before I could snuff it out with a frantic mental command.
The sound of the lock made me freeze mid-motion. The Inquisitor entered, his presence a cold draft in the charged room. His eyes, sharp as flint, swept over me. I was still, my arms lowered, but I could feel the residual heat in my palms, the faint, fading glow in my veins.
"You are restless," he observed, his voice devoid of concern. "The impure energy agitates you. It is a sign the corruption seeks to assert its will through your weakness."
He didn't understand. He saw only a corrupted aura, not a power straining to be born. It was my only shield.
"The Archbishop has been clear," he continued, placing a sealed order on the small table. "You are to be transferred to the Cloister of Silent Waters at dawn. The carriage is prepared. You will be escorted to the chapel's holding cells tonight." He watched me, waiting for a breakdown, for tears, for pleading.
I gave him none. I simply nodded, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt. The news was a boulder dropped into the churning sea inside me. The resulting wave of despair was so vast, so absolute, that for a terrifying moment, I felt the dam within me bend. A soundless, golden vibration emanated from my core, shaking the dust on the floor. The water in the pitcher on the table rippled.
The Inquisitor's eyes dropped to the vibrating water, then snapped back to my face. Confusion warred with suspicion. "What was that?"
"The foundations…" I whispered, seizing the excuse, my voice raw. "I can still feel it. The Anchor's pain. It echoes." It wasn't entirely a lie. The memory of that torment was a live wire touching my own distress.
He took a cautious step back, his hand moving to the holy symbol at his belt. "The bond is deeper than I feared. The cloister's silence is not just a mercy, child. It is a necessity. The world must be protected from such… resonant sickness." He left, the lock turning with finality.
The moment he was gone, I collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the floor. The vibration had stopped, but the pressure was worse. It wasn't just emotional now; it was physical. A warm, solid mass of light was coalescing behind my sternum, growing denser by the hour. It wanted out.
Moonrise. They come at moonrise.
I had hours. I had to find an outlet, a controlled release, or I would explode in that holding cell.
My eyes fell on the water pitcher. Water. A conduit. A neutral element.
I crawled to it, my movements jerky. I pulled the ceramic stopper and dipped my fingertips into the cool liquid. I focused not on containing but on guiding. I pictured a single, thin thread of power, no thicker than a hair, traveling from my core, down my arm, and into the water.
A bead of golden light, perfect and pearl-like, formed at my fingertip under the surface. It detached and floated, suspended, illuminating the pitcher with a soft, ethereal glow. Success. A controlled release.
But the relief was microscopic. The pressure decreased by a fraction. I needed a river, not a drop.
I tried again, aiming for a steady stream. The power, eager and misunderstood, surged. A torrent of light erupted from my hand, turning the entire pitcherful into liquid gold. It overflowed, spilling onto the table with a hiss, the holy water burning tiny, scentless holes into the wood before the light dissipated.
I yanked my hand back, horrified. The table was scarred. The evidence was plain.
Frantic, I used my sleeve to wipe up the water and to rub at the marks. The wood was etched, faintly, with a spiraling, graceful pattern—like frost, but made of light. It was beautiful and damning.
I threw the ruined cloth into a corner and sat on the floor, rocking slightly. This was impossible. I couldn't control it. Not enough.
As dusk painted the room in blues and purples, a new, insidious thought crept in. What if I didn't need to control it all? What if I could… redirect it? Not into the open, but into an object? The frost-stone from Elara was in my pocket, a vessel of Northern ice magic. Opposite forces. Could it absorb the light and neutralize it?
It was a terrible risk. Mixing magics could cause a violent reaction. But the alternative was a cell, a carriage, or a cloister.
When moonrise came and the Templars entered, I was ready. The stone was clutched in my sweating palm. As I walked between them, I began the agonizing process of pushing the accumulating power, not out, but into the stone.
At first, it worked. The stone grew warm, then hot, drinking the golden light. The pressure in my chest eased slightly. But the stone was not infinite. It was a small pebble, and I was a sun.
Halfway down the corridor, the stone reached its limit.
A sharp crack sounded in my fist, like ice breaking. A searing cold, followed by a blinding, silent explosion of combined energies—golden light and blue-white frost—burst from my hand.
The concussion was not violent but stunning. It was a wave of pure, numbing force and radiant light. The two Templars were thrown off their feet, not injured, but flash-frozen in a moment of shock and disorientation, a thin rime of magical frost coating their armor. The corridor walls glittered with frozen, glowing droplets.
The Inquisitor, coming around the corner, was slammed back against the wall by the magical shockwave, his eyes wide with utter, incomprehensible shock.
For three seconds, there was perfect, glittering, luminous silence.
Then the alarms began to sound.
I stood amid the sparkling, frozen chaos, the shattered remains of the message stone falling from my numb fingers. This wasn't the full manifestation. This was the containment failure. The prelude.
And it was more than enough.
"HERESY! SORCERY!" The Inquisitor screamed, finding his voice, pushing himself upright. "SEIZE THE ABOMINATION!"
The Templars were shaking off the frost, their faces turning from confusion to rage.
I ran.
Not with a glorious, full-bodied light, but as a fugitive trailing golden sparks and the scent of ozone and winter, the dam within me groaning and splintering with every step, the true cataclysm held back by threads.
I burst into the courtyard, a spectacle of crackling, unstable energy. The diversion at the main gate—Kaelen's timely arrival—was the only reason I wasn't immediately swarmed. In the chaos of his demanding entrance and my sparkling, erratic flight, I reached the postern gate.
The key turned. I fell into the alley, the sounds of the erupting academy behind me.
I had not fully manifested. But I had revealed enough. The hunt would begin at dawn.
And the power within me, now that the first seal was broken, pulsed with a frightening new rhythm, eager for its true debut.