The air around me shifted—sharp, cold, and electric. It prickled across my skin, curling like invisible fingers in my hair. Magic. It rippled through the air like a gathering storm.


    This magic. It was strong. It felt unfamiliar, yet somehow, it felt like I had known it for a long time.


    Yashka. I thought. It was Yashka’s magic. His and that of the Gem of the Heavens.


    That’s it, a thought occurred to me.


    I lifted my hand and focused, calling for the Gem of the Heavens.


    I could quell the storm using the Gem.


    My magic circle flared to life—indigo, traced with sharp constellations—but the Gem itself refused to appear.


    “What . . . ?” My pulse quickened.


    A low chuckle answered me.


    “You’ll need more than wishful thinking.”


    I turned to see Yashka lounging against a frozen pillar. His right hand in front of him, palm open, facing upward. On his palm was his magic circle: bluish-silver, traced with patterns of lightning, what seemed like a tornado, and wings. An indigo Gem floated just above his magic circle, trailing faint silver light that looked like stars as it twirled.


    “You have my Gem,” I growled.


    “Your Gem?” Yashka’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t forget—I wielded this power before you. I was the Gem’s chosen first. It is loyal to me as it is to you.”


    “Well, I am the Gem’s chosen now,” I shot back. “You’re just stalling.”


    His grin widened. “Am I?” He gave a lazy wave of his hand.


    The air thickened. My magic circle rippled violently as ice crackled beneath my boots, and jagged arcs of lightning danced up my arm.


    “Control this,” Yashka said with mock sweetness. “Unless you’d rather I do it for you?”


    “You—!”


    The first crack of thunder cut me off, and a bolt of lightning streaked past my face, close enough that the heat stung my skin. I staggered back, heart pounding. The wind howled, biting like frozen blades, tearing at the hem of my clothes.


    “Quell the storm and prove to me—and to the Gem of the Heavens—that you are worthy to be the new chosen,” Yashka declared.


    “Be still.” I waved my hands, ordering the winds. I felt ridiculous. First of all, that’s what came to mind: a scene from a movie I watched where Jesus ordered the storm to cease.


    “You think you’re in a drama?” Yashka sneered. “Waving your hands like some holy prophet isn’t going to work!”


    “I know that!” I snapped, trying again.


    “Do you?” His voice was mocking. “Because right now, you’re flailing like a cat in a bathtub.”


    I clenched my fists, forcing myself to breathe. The storm raged louder, swirling and twisting as if it were alive. I reached out with my magic, attempting to shape it—to control it—but the energy tore free like a wild animal snapping at its leash.


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    “Too forceful!” Yashka barked. “You can’t command a storm—you have to guide it!”


    “Oh, sure!” I spat. “Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll just whisper sweet nothings to the thunder!”


    “Better than screaming at it like an idiot!” Yashka shot back.


    I cursed under my breath, cold biting into my skin.


    “Focus!” Yashka’s voice cut through the chaos. “Your magic’s reacting to your fear. Calm your thoughts—direct it!”


    I gritted my teeth. “I am trying!”


    “Trying isn’t enough!” His voice sharpened like ice. “You’re treating this like a wrestling match! This isn’t about overpowering it — it’s about precision!”


    “I know what I’m doing!” I roared back.


    “Clearly you don’t!” Yashka barked a laugh. “You’re like a toddler throwing punches at a tornado!”


    I wanted to punch him.


    “Feel it . . .” Yashka’s voice dropped, quieter but still sharp. “Magic isn’t just energy. It’s rhythm. Flow. You’ve felt it before—so stop acting like some blunt instrument and start acting like a mage.”


    I shut my eyes tight, teeth grinding.


    Feel it . . .


    Magic wasn’t just power—it was flow, rhythm, connection. I’d always sensed it that way—like unseen strings tangled in the air. Invisible threads danced across my skin, darting between my fingers.


    “That''s it...” Yashka murmured. “Now stop squeezing it like you’re strangling a chicken.”


    I ignored him, focusing on the threads. They twisted wildly—jagged arcs of lightning, spirals of frigid wind—too volatile to control.


    Not with force—with precision.


    I exhaled slowly, letting my fingers drift through the storm. The lightning flickered, crackling into thin, thread-like strands. The icy wind shifted, curling into softer currents. I wove the threads together—lightning twisted into arcs, then curves, then starbursts. The winds spiraled into slow, steady rotations.


    Bit by bit, the storm became a sky—dark, cold, but calm—a vast canvas lit by glowing constellations. Each pulse of starlight matched the rhythm of my heartbeat. The chaos had become mine.


    I opened my eyes, breathless.


    Yashka was watching me with a critical eye, arms crossed. “Not bad,” he muttered. “Took you long enough.”


    “Took me long enough?” My voice cracked. “I was one spark away from being barbecued!”


    “If you’d listened sooner, you wouldn’t have been.” Yashka shrugged. “You keep relying on brute force when you don’t have to.”


    “Oh, right.” I scowled. “Next time I’ll just politely ask the lightning not to fry me.”


    “You think this is funny?” Yashka scoffed. “You think I’m playing with you?” He stepped closer, eyes like ice. “I’ve seen kids better at this than you, and they didn’t waste half their time throwing tantrums.”


    “Yeah?” I shot back. “How many of those kids are still alive?”


    His grin dropped. “Not enough.”


    I blinked. Yashka—smug, arrogant Yashka—suddenly looked tired.


    “I’ve been where you are,” he said, quieter now. “I learned the hard way too. Thought I could blast through everything with raw power. I nearly died because of it.”


    “What happened?” I asked before I could stop myself.


    He scoffed. “Some arrogant kid thought he could command a storm by shouting louder than the thunder. Turns out lightning doesn’t give a damn about pride.” His smile faded. “If you want to survive this, you have to listen—to your magic, to yourself—not just react.”


    I let his words sink in, and for once, I didn’t have a snarky reply.


    “Anyway,” Yashka said suddenly, summoning the Gem of the Heavens again. “That didn’t take long. Now . . . onto the real training.”


    I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Wait . . . what?”


    “You heard me.” His grin turned razor-sharp. “That wasn’t the real test.”


    I felt my pulse pound in my ears. “That wasn’t?” My voice dropped into a dry laugh. “What the fuck do you even mean?”


    Yashka just chuckled. “You’ll see.”


    I was so going to punch him after this.