V2C13 - Stillness and Sparks

Veyren’s Cottage – Early Morning

Lucen stirred to the sound of birdsong and the soft clink of glass. His shoulders ached in that heavy, satisfying way—like every inch of him had been molded the day before, pressed and tested, and still held shape.

He blinked against the pale light streaming through the crooked wooden shutters above his bedroll.

The air smelled faintly of herbs and something vaguely metallic.

He sat up slowly, stretching an arm across his chest with a quiet groan.

Across the small room, Nyari sat near the open doorway, back to the wall, one leg propped up, tail flicking slowly back and forth in rhythm with whatever thoughts she wasn’t saying aloud.

She glanced over as he moved.

“You survived the night,” she said, voice soft but amused.

“Barely,” Lucen muttered.

“Your face didn’t melt in your sleep, so I’m calling that a win.”

He gave a weak smile, brushing a hand through his hair as he stood and reached for his satchel.

Outside the door, the sound of light grinding echoed through the clearing—stone against stone, slow and methodical.

Veyren.

Lucen peeked out and spotted the old mage near the eastern edge of the clearing, seated beside a ring of small rune stones. He was stirring something thick and faintly glowing in a blackened kettle using a carved bone rod.

He didn’t look up.

Didn’t say good morning.

Didn’t need to.

Lucen stepped back inside and looked at Nyari again.

She was watching the breeze through the trees now, eyes thoughtful.

“Sleep okay?” he asked.

She nodded once. “Didn’t dream.”

That, from her, was a good night.

Lucen stepped back from the doorway and let the cottage’s soft shadows welcome him again.

He moved quietly—barefoot on the creaking floorboards, his tunic half-wrinkled from sleep and still smelling faintly of moss and smoke. He reached for his pack and pulled out one of Marella’s wrapped parcels: dried fruit and a round flatbread wrapped in cloth. A breakfast that didn’t require magic or effort.

He held it up toward Nyari.

She raised a brow but didn’t move.

Lucen tore it in half and tossed her a piece.

She caught it one-handed, took a bite without a word.

The silence between them was comfortable now—more than it had been before. The kind where you didn’t need to fill the air just to prove you were there.

Nyari leaned her head back against the wall, letting the faint golden light spill over her cheekbones, her tail curled neatly around her ankle.

“You’re not limping,” she said eventually.

Lucen chewed, then swallowed. “Does that mean I passed?”

She tilted her head in consideration. “Still pending.”

He smirked. “You’re a tough grader.”

“You’re a slow learner.”

She said it without heat—just that familiar edge that no longer cut as deep.

Lucen stretched his arms overhead, groaning as his shoulders cracked.

Everything still ached—but it was clean pain. Purposeful.

“I never thought learning earth magic would feel like dragging a mountain out of my spine.”

“That’s because it is.”

She tossed her fruit pit into a corner basket with perfect aim, then shifted her legs, adjusting her seated posture.

For a few minutes, they sat like that—just chewing, breathing, listening to the quiet pulse of the forest beyond the open door.

Outside, the faint scrape of Veyren’s brewing rod continued—like a ritual that had no end, only rhythm.

Lucen leaned back against a support beam, his body sinking slowly into rest.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before.”

Nyari glanced over. “Like what?”

“…Settled.”

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease him for it.

She just looked at him for a beat longer than usual, her eyes less guarded now. And then she said, “Don’t get too used to it.”

Lucen smiled faintly. “I won’t.”

Another quiet settled, this one laced with morning warmth and leftover emotion from the night before.

Eventually, Nyari stood and rolled out her shoulders, cracking her neck once.

“I’m gonna stretch.”

Lucen arched a brow. “Training with me or just gloating?”

“Both.”

He pushed himself up with a soft grunt and grabbed his waterskin. “Can’t let you outpace me again.”

“You never stop letting me outpace you.”

“Today’s a new day.”

She gave a short laugh and gestured toward the clearing. “Then bring your magic limbs and let’s warm up before the old man starts hurling lightning again.”

Lucen followed her out into the light—into the crisp air, the scent of pine and charleaf, and the soft crunch of dew-kissed grass beneath their boots.

It wasn’t a battlefield.

It wasn’t a mission.

Just a morning.

And for now, that was enough.

Veyren’s Clearing – Morning Light

The clearing still wore a soft sheen of dew as Lucen and Nyari stepped onto the grass. The sun hadn’t yet risen high enough to cast harsh light—just wide bands of gold slanting between the trees, brushing the mossy ground in warm strokes.

Nyari rolled her shoulders and dropped low into a stretch, one leg extended to the side, her balance effortless.

Lucen followed—though not as gracefully—copying her motion as best he could.

“You still stretch like a swordsman,” she said.

He grunted. “I am a swordsman.”

“With zero spine flexibility.”

“Earth magic doesn’t require flexibility.”

She gave him a pointed look. “You think that until you fall mid-roll and throw your back out.”

Lucen shifted position with a wince. “Has that happened to you?”

“Nope.” She smirked. “But it’d be hilarious if it happened to you.”

He gave her a sidelong look. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m charming.”

“You can be both.”

She straightened, then eased into a high kick that cut the air with precision before planting her foot again with a light bounce.

Lucen watched her movements for a second too long before catching himself and returning to his stance.

He exhaled, stepped forward, and mimicked the motion.

Less bounce. A little wobble. But stable.

Nyari nodded, not mocking this time. “Better.”

They moved through a few more light drills—low kicks, turns, angled steps, nothing intense. Just rhythm and repetition. The kind of training that didn’t tax the body but focused the mind. Lucen kept his mana quiet, letting his limbs carry him, his stance adjust naturally.

For the first time in weeks, they didn’t spar.

They moved.

Together.

At one point, they turned simultaneously, backs to each other, and paused there in stillness.

No words.

Just two breaths, in sync.

Then a deep voice cut through the clearing.

“Are you done dancing?”

Lucen turned as Veyren emerged from the edge of the trees, his long coat dusted with pine needles, an unmarked flask in one hand.

He didn’t slow as he approached, eyes scanning Lucen like someone appraising a half-finished statue.

“You’re limber enough not to snap,” Veyren said. “Let’s test if your control’s caught up to your spine.”

Lucen straightened, his shoulders already tensing in preparation.

Veyren gestured toward the far edge of the clearing, where several flat stones had been arranged in a staggered ring. Some small, some wide, all half-sunken in the ground.

“Today,” he said, “you’re going to lift, shape, and hold. No showboating. No explosions. Earth magic is about command—not performance.”

Lucen nodded.

Veyren narrowed his eyes. “You break focus, you drop the structure. You drop the structure, it caves on you. You get buried, I laugh. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Lucen muttered.

Nyari moved to the side, arms crossed, tail flicking behind her. “Try not to die. I’d have to clean up the rocks.”

Lucen stepped toward the center of the ring, exhaled, and reached deep into himself—toward that solid hum from yesterday.

Still there.

Still waiting.

Lucen stepped into the center of the stone ring, the morning light spilling across the clearing behind him. The flattened rocks around him varied in size—most were cracked, pitted, worn from age. Veyren’s test wasn’t about lifting something clean.

It was about control.

Lucen closed his eyes and reached inward.

Fire surged. Wind flickered. But he moved past both.

Deeper. Slower. He searched for the weight he’d felt yesterday—the hum, the pressure.

It came.

Quiet and low, like the tremor before a quake.

He placed both hands flat on the earth.

Mana flowed down.

The ground beneath him rumbled softly.

Veyren’s voice rang out, firm. “First task: raise three stones—equal height, equal spacing. Maintain their shape. No leaning. No cracks.”

Lucen nodded, grounding his stance. The mana bled through his fingers like thick liquid—not rushing, not wild. He visualized the stones—not flying upward, but rising with purpose. Deliberate. Centered.

The first stone began to move.

A low grind. Earth scraped against earth.

It rose—half a foot, then a full foot. Uneven at first, but Lucen caught it, smoothing the edge. A squat pedestal formed, sturdy and rough.

He turned slightly, shifting his focus to the second.

This one fought him—stalled midway, crumbled on one side. He reinforced it, pushing more mana into its center. Not too much. Just enough.

It held.

He turned to the third.

Nyari watched silently from the shade, her eyes narrow with focus—but not critical. Studying.

The third stone gave him trouble. It started to rise, then wobbled, fractured at the edge. Lucen breathed slower, let the earth settle, and tried again. Less pressure this time. More patience.

It responded.

A third pedestal joined the ring.

Three stones, shoulder-height, stable.

Lucen dropped his hands, panting slightly.

They didn’t fall.

Veyren walked a slow circle around them, flask in one hand, eyes scanning each structure.

“Shape holds,” he muttered. “Edges sloppy. Weight distribution uneven.”

Lucen waited, sweat trickling down his neck.

“But,” Veyren added, “they’re standing.”

Lucen straightened.

Veyren stopped in front of him.

“You’ve learned fire from instinct. Wind from movement. But earth…” His gaze leveled. “Earth only listens to those who shut up and earn its respect.”

Lucen nodded, chest still rising and falling.

“Come back at noon,” Veyren said. “We shape them into steps next.”

He turned without another word, disappearing toward the rear of the cottage.

Lucen stared at the three pillars.

They weren’t perfect.

But they were his.

Lucen let out a slow groan as he pushed himself upright from the grass, one arm slung across his shoulder, trying—and failing—to rub out the stiffness settling deep into his back.

“Feels like I tried to lift a mountain with my spine,” he muttered.

Nyari, still seated with one leg bent and her back resting lightly against a mossy stone, glanced sideways at him.

“You kinda did,” she said. “Just slowly. And with questionable posture.”

Lucen rolled his eyes and dropped back onto the grass with a soft whuff, staring up at the morning sky. “I’m pretty sure there’s a knot in my back that’s gained sentience.”

Nyari smirked faintly and leaned forward, arms draping loosely over her knees. “Want me to get the guild to put out a bounty on it?”

“Too late. It already claimed territory.”

She shook her head, but something in her gaze lingered—just a little longer than usual. Lucen had seen it before, in flashes: when he got hurt during a quest, or after a hard spar, or when he wasn’t looking and she thought he wouldn’t notice. That flicker of concern that never quite made it to her voice.

He winced again, reaching back to rub at the tight spot under his shoulder blade. His fingers didn’t quite reach.

Nyari watched him struggle for another second, then clicked her tongue.

“Turn around.”

Lucen blinked. “What?”

“Sit up. Turn around.” Her voice was casual, but the tone was final.

He hesitated. “You’re not going to stab me, are you?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Lucen grunted and pulled himself upright again, legs crossed loosely as he sat facing away from her.

A moment later, Nyari moved behind him—light on her feet, quiet as always—and dropped to her knees in the grass.

Without another word, her hands pressed against his back—thumbs firm at the base of his neck, palms flattening across the tops of his shoulders.

Lucen tensed slightly. Not from pain. Just… surprise.

Then she started working.

Her fingers moved with slow, purposeful pressure—circling the tight muscle just beneath his shoulder blades, coaxing the strain out of his back. It wasn’t gentle. Nyari didn’t do gentle. But it was deliberate. Steady. Focused.

Lucen let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “That’s… not bad.”

“Obviously,” she muttered, dragging her thumb down the edge of his spine until she found the worst knot and dug in with merciless precision. “You’re a mess.”

He winced. “Ow—okay, that one’s personal.”

“It’s structural,” she said, without a hint of apology. “You’ve been walking around like a stiff board since yesterday.”

He let his head tilt forward slightly, relaxing under the pressure. The heat in his back—leftover from the fire magic—faded beneath the stronger pull of earth and tension.

Her hands kept moving. Slower now. Not mechanical. Just… present.

Lucen didn’t speak.

Neither did she.

The birds filled the silence. The rustling trees. The faint creak of Veyren’s wards humming low across the clearing.

Her thumbs rolled gently across his shoulders one last time, then she let her hands fall away. But she didn’t move back immediately.

Lucen sat up straighter.

“That helped,” he said softly.

Nyari didn’t respond right away. Her voice, when it came, was quieter than before.

“You’ve changed.”

Lucen turned his head slightly, not enough to see her, just to show he was listening.

“You’re still a little dumb,” she continued, “but you’re not panicking all the time anymore. You’re focused. More grounded.”

Lucen chuckled under his breath. “I’ve literally been grounding myself all morning.”

Nyari smirked behind him. “Yeah, well. It suits you.”

He turned a little more, finally meeting her eyes over his shoulder.

She was closer than he thought. Sitting just behind him, one leg folded, tail curled around her ankle. Her hands rested in her lap now, but she didn’t look away.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then she leaned back, stretching her arms with a mock-yawn.

“Anyway,” she said, slipping back into her usual smug tone, “that’s the only nice thing I’m saying today. So don’t let it go to your head.”

Lucen grinned. “Too late.”

She flicked a blade of grass at his face. “Ugh. Regret.”

He laughed and flopped onto his back again, muscles still sore—but lighter now. Looser.

Nyari leaned on one hand beside him, gazing up at the sky.

They didn’t touch again.

But they didn’t move apart either.

The breeze swept gently over the clearing, rustling the grass around them in slow waves. Birds chirped overhead, and the warm scent of charleaf still drifted faintly from Veyren’s wards.

Lucen lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded as he stared up at the canopy above. Nyari sat beside him, legs crossed, leaning slightly on one arm.

Neither of them said much.

The silence wasn’t heavy.

It just… lingered.

Then, softly:

“You ever think about stopping?”

Lucen turned his head a little, looking up at her.

Nyari didn’t meet his eyes. She was watching the sky—like she was trying to pick out something in the drifting clouds.

“Adventuring?” he asked.

She nodded.

Lucen let the question settle.

“Sometimes,” he said. “When I’m sore. Or tired. Or thinking too much.”

Nyari huffed faintly, like that last part wasn’t a surprise.

He added, “But I don’t know what I’d do if I stopped.”

Nyari finally looked down at him.

Her expression wasn’t smug. Not teasing. Just… quiet.

“Neither do I,” she murmured. “Feels like if I stop moving, I’ll start sinking.”

Lucen didn’t joke. Didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he turned toward her more fully, propping himself up on one elbow.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment, it felt like the entire clearing hushed around them.

Lucen’s voice came low. “You’re not alone in this, you know.”

Nyari’s gaze softened—just slightly. Not enough to break her guard, but enough to see through it.

“…I know,” she said.

Then, without thinking, she shifted a little closer and let herself lean into him—just enough for their shoulders to touch. Her tail curled around them like a loose ring in the grass.

Lucen didn’t move.

He didn’t speak.

He just let it happen.

Her head didn’t rest on his chest. Her arms didn’t wrap around him. Nothing bold. Nothing dramatic.

Just… closeness.

Willing. Warm. Quiet.

They sat like that for a while. No words. No movement.

Just the sun, and the breeze, and the sound of the forest holding space for something they weren’t quite ready to name.

The wind had settled into a gentle rhythm, brushing through the grass like a whisper. Time had slipped by unnoticed, the sun now casting long shadows across the clearing as midday crept in—soft and golden.

Lucen didn’t know how long they had been sitting there.

Nyari’s shoulder rested against his. Her warmth seeped into him, quiet and steady. Her tail, still loosely curled, had drifted across his boot without either of them moving it. Her scent was faint—like pine and iron and wildflower soap from the Hearthlight Inn.

He glanced at her.

She wasn’t teasing.

Her gaze was lowered, her expression still.

Then she looked up—eyes meeting his.

And stayed there.

Lucen’s breath caught in his throat.

She didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

The breeze stopped.

Her face was close now. Closer than it had ever been.

Her ears twitched once, and her lips parted—just barely.

Lucen leaned in, just a fraction, something unspoken sparking in the narrow space between them.

Nyari didn’t move.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t stop him.

Their foreheads nearly touched—just the faintest tremble of breath between them.

And then—

“If you’re done crawling into each other’s faces,” Veyren’s voice called, flat and dry as stone, “we’ve got rocks to move.”

Lucen froze.

Nyari blinked once.

Then she slowly pulled back, not flustered—but not indifferent either.

Her voice came cool and smooth, but quieter than usual.

“Guess that’s our cue.”

Lucen cleared his throat, sitting up fully. “Yeah.”

They both stood without another word, brushing off the grass, not looking directly at each other.

But as Nyari walked ahead toward the shaping stones, she let her tail flick behind her.

And just for a second—

It brushed lightly against his hand.

Not by accident.

Lucen adjusted the strap of his satchel, even though he didn’t need to. His fingers lingered at the buckle a little too long.

Beside him, Nyari gave her arms a half-hearted stretch, though she wasn’t sore—just fidgeting in a way she rarely did.

They walked side by side across the clearing again, a quiet space lingering between them that hadn’t been there before.

It wasn’t uncomfortable.

Just…

Loaded.

Lucen risked a glance her way.

She didn’t look back—but the corner of her mouth twitched. Not a full smirk. Not even close. Just the faintest curve. Enough to say:

Yeah. I noticed.

Lucen’s heartbeat hadn’t quite gone back to normal yet.

Neither had hers.

Veyren, already standing near the ring of stones with his arms folded and an expression like he’d rather be eating nails, called out:

“Good. You still remember how to walk. Maybe your mana’s not completely leaking out your ears.”

Nyari muttered under her breath, “Mood killer.”

Lucen grinned. “He’s consistent.”

They stepped back into the ring.

Time to work.

Veyren didn’t bother turning around as they approached. He simply raised his voice, flat as ever.

“You raised them this morning,” he said. “Now you’ll shape them into steps. Three tiers. Same height, same depth. Clean edges. No cracks.”

He finally turned, eyeing Lucen like one might judge a block of uncut marble. “And if you lose focus, I’ll know. Because you’ll be under it.”

Lucen exhaled slowly and stepped into the center of the ring, the three squat pillars still standing—rough, uneven, and weathered. His earlier work.

This would be different.

Not about lifting. About control. Shape. Patience.

He crouched down, placing both palms flat against the ground again, the cool soil grounding him more than any incantation ever could.

Behind him, Nyari sat cross-legged again, her usual commentary withheld—for now.

Lucen closed his eyes.

One breath in. One out.

The mana stirred inside him—not surging, not flaring. Settling. Like the weight of the earth itself.

He reached toward the stones.

And began.

Lucen drew his focus inward, the way Veyren had drilled into him again and again.

Don’t force it. Don’t command it. Guide it.

His palms rested flat on the earth, and the three squat stone pillars pulsed faintly beneath the surface—still holding the mana he’d shaped earlier. Still listening.

He reached for that presence again.

Earth wasn’t wild. It wasn’t chaotic. It was steady. It demanded intent—not emotion.

He breathed in.

And began to shape.

The center pillar responded first—sinking fractionally into the ground, its height reducing as he spread its mass outward. He visualized the lines—flat, even, precise.

The stone obeyed—slowly.

A square shape took form—rough, but clear. A platform.

He moved to the second.

This one resisted. The mass was off-center, slightly fractured from the earlier shaping. He paused, slowed his breathing, then pressed deeper into the flow of mana—not with more energy, but with clarity.

The stone trembled slightly beneath his fingers.

Then it gave.

It lowered, flattened, shifted—its weight redistributing along his mental line until it matched the first.

Not perfect. But balanced.

Sweat beaded at his temples now. Not from heat—but from focus.

The third pillar was the trickiest. It had formed higher than the rest, its structure uneven. He felt the resistance immediately.

Lucen gritted his teeth—not from frustration, but pressure. His mana strained to hold the other two steps stable as he focused on the last.

Behind him, Veyren said nothing.

But he felt the weight of the mage’s presence like a boulder on his spine.

The final shape began to form.

Edges curled inward.

The top flattened.

Lucen opened his eyes.

Three wide stone steps now sat in a descending line—imperfect, still a little jagged at the edges, but each one stable, flush with the ground, and aligned.

He dropped his hands and exhaled sharply, his pulse heavy in his ears.

The stone didn’t crumble.

It held.

For a full ten seconds, no one spoke.

Then Veyren said, “Acceptable.”

Lucen blinked. “That’s… good, right?”

“It means you didn’t embarrass yourself,” the mage replied. “A rare feat, apparently.”

Nyari’s voice chimed in from the edge. “He’s still glowing a little. That counts for something.”

Lucen sat back in the grass, panting softly. His arms ached again—but differently now.

This wasn’t the pain of failure.

It was the fatigue of progress.

Veyren’s Clearing – Campfire Dusk

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering light across the clearing as the sun dipped behind the treetops. Long shadows stretched across the moss and stone, the world dimming into orange and ember.

Lucen sat near the fire with his arms resting loosely on his knees, his body still carrying the lingering fatigue from shaping stone all afternoon. Across from him, Nyari crouched beside a half-log, lazily poking at the coals with a twig.

Neither spoke for a while.

The silence wasn’t heavy.

Just… thick. Like the fire wasn’t the only thing burning in the space between them.

Lucen’s eyes shifted toward her now and then, catching the way the firelight danced along her face—bright across her cheekbones, soft around her mouth. Her usual smug edge was gone. Replaced with something quieter.

Something real.

She hadn’t teased him since they sat down.

That alone made the air feel charged.

Lucen looked back at the flames. “Earlier. When we almost—”

Nyari cut him off—not sharply, but firm. “Don’t.”

He turned slightly toward her, confused. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant,” she said, voice quieter now. “And yeah… I remember it.”

She set the twig down. “But talking about it now would ruin it. Like explaining a dream while you’re still half-asleep.”

Lucen didn’t reply right away. He just nodded.

Nyari looked at him again—really looked—and the flames painted her expression in shifting gold. “I meant what I said. I feel it too.”

Lucen’s heart picked up.

“I just…” She trailed off, then sighed. “I don’t want the first time we cross that line to be after a sweaty training session and a half-dead massage.”

Lucen let out a soft laugh—quiet, breathy. “Fair.”

They lapsed into silence again.

Then she stood and brushed off her hands. “Come here.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Not behind me. Not across from me. Here.” She motioned to the space beside her on the log.

Lucen hesitated.

Then moved, quietly, settling beside her on the log where their legs barely touched.

Barely.

The fire crackled louder now, like it knew.

Their shoulders brushed as he sat. Neither of them shifted away.

Nyari looked ahead. “I’m used to being alone.”

“I know.”

“But right now…” she glanced sideways, her voice softer, “I don’t want to be.”

Lucen turned toward her—and for a moment, the tension hit again. Not playful. Not teasing. Just quiet and full.

Their faces were close.

Closer than they needed to be.

Neither of them leaned in this time.

But neither looked away.

Nyari’s tail flicked behind the log—slow, deliberate. Then curled lazily over the side and brushed softly against Lucen’s boot.

Lucen didn’t move.

Nyari spoke without looking at him.

“Not yet.”

His reply was just a breath. “Okay.”

Author’s Note:

Some moments don’t need to be rushed.

Lucen and Nyari have walked through fire, wind, and stone together—growing stronger, side by side. But strength doesn’t always mean action. Sometimes, the bravest thing is knowing when to wait.

That near-miss after the fire? It wasn’t hesitation. It was respect. Timing. The kind of closeness that doesn’t need to prove itself to be real.

Thanks for reading.

And if you feel the tension between them? Good.

You’re supposed to.

Chapter 14’s coming—and so is everything they’re not saying.