Where Fire and Footsteps Meet

My steps are cleaner now.

Heel to toe. Quiet. Grounded.

The wooden sword doesn’t fight me like it used to. It moves with me—like it’s beginning to understand the rhythm I’m trying to find.

Or maybe I’m the one learning to listen.

That’s how the orb felt at first.

Now… it’s the blade.

I still wake up early to train alone.

Sword at my side. Magic in my hands.

Some mornings, I start with stances. Other mornings, I sit beneath the tree and let the light build in my palm—soft and steady.

My father never says anything about the magic. He just watches from a distance before we begin our drills.

I don’t think he understands it.

But he doesn’t look away anymore.

Today, I tried something different.

I held the orb in one hand… and the sword in the other.

It was clumsy. Unbalanced. My grip slipped twice.

But for a moment—just one—I moved.

A step forward. A turn of the blade. The orb stayed with me, drifting just behind the motion.

It wasn’t elegant.

But it was possible.

Later, I sat by the stream.

The sword rested beside me in the grass. The orb hovered just above the water, casting slow ripples of light across the surface.

I wasn’t trying to do anything special.

Just thinking.

Could I ever fight with both?

Could I swing while casting?

Could I protect someone with a sword… and magic?

I didn’t know the answer.

But the thought stayed with me—long after the orb faded.

That night, my mother found me rubbing my arms.

She sat beside me without a word and pressed a warm cloth to my shoulder.

“You’re growing fast,” she said softly.

I leaned against her, letting the warmth settle in.

For a moment, the ache faded.

And all I felt was the quiet beat of something I didn’t have in my old life.

Something like peace.