Chapter 205- Threads of Light
Tarria
I had never seen anything like it. Even after everything—the battles, the chaos, the raw power I had learned to wield—I had never witnessed control like this. Sitting beneath the willow, watching Lexy surrounded by her children, I felt something stir deep inside me.
At first, I thought it was awe. Pure, unfiltered awe at her strength. Not just her fire, but the way she carried it now: tempered, calm, and utterly in harmony with herself. There was no aggression, no tension, no flare of ego. Just presence. Commanded power, yes—but not in the way that sought to dominate. It flowed naturally, instinctively, as if it had always been meant to be.
And then there were the children.
I had underestimated them, I realized. I thought they were too young, too small to grasp even the simplest control of their inherited power. Yet here they were, sitting quietly, breathing in rhythm, hands lifted gently, responding to Lexy’s fire in ways that defied everything I thought I knew. They weren’t mimicking her. They were harmonizing with her.
I felt it—vibrations of energy that brushed against my skin, faint but undeniable. A pulse that spoke of understanding, of resonance, of something far beyond raw strength. I had felt power surge before, in myself, in Kael, in Adrian—but never like this. Never in such serene, quiet mastery.
For a long moment, I doubted my own eyes. I had trained my smoke, forced it into tight coils, tempered it with all my focus—but I had never felt a connection like this. Fire and innocence, raw power and instinctual control, flowing together in a way that made the impossible seem… possible.
And then it hit me.
If these children, so small, could channel what was inside them—if Lexy, even in the advanced stages of pregnancy, could hold herself and her power so completely—then maybe there was hope for me too. Maybe I could achieve control that didn’t feel like constant strain. Maybe I could learn to let my smoke be a part of me, not something that twisted and thrashed against my mind.
I crouched at the edge of the circle, keeping my distance but staying close enough to feel the energy radiating outward. My heart raced—not from fear, not from adrenaline, but from something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.
Hope that the power I had once thought a curse could become a tool.
Hope that the fear I carried—the fear that I might never fully control what I was capable of—was not permanent.
Hope that, with guidance, I could stand alongside Lexy not just as an ally, but as someone who truly understood her own strength.
I closed my eyes and let the pulse of energy wash over me, feeling the faintest tug as it brushed past my smoke. For a brief moment, I imagined what it would feel like to have my power respond so naturally, without rebellion, without struggle. The thought was intoxicating.
And then I realized something else. This was not just about power. Not just about control. It was about connections.
Lexy’s fire wasn’t merely hers—it resonated with her children, reaching into them and drawing out something innate, something that existed even before they had been born. And somehow, in that quiet, pulsing resonance, I understood that power didn’t have to be solitary. It could bond, it could harmonize, it could become a bridge instead of a weapon.
I had felt alone in my abilities for so long. Misunderstood, untamed, feared. Even when I fought alongside Lexy, even when I trusted her completely, I had doubted myself. But watching this—watching her and the children—reminded me that mastery didn’t mean isolation. It meant understanding, patience, and trust. Trust in oneself and in others.
The garden fell silent. The children’s breathing slowed, their small faces serene, yet even with their eyes closed, I felt the pulse linger in the air. Lexy sat in the center, still and steady, a calm force holding them together without effort.
I exhaled slowly, my chest loosening. I had been holding my own breath without realizing it, bracing for something I had thought might explode at any second. But nothing exploded. Nothing shattered. Instead, I saw a glimpse of what power could truly be: balanced, contained, alive, and shared.
I felt a warmth spread through me, one that had nothing to do with fire or smoke. It was a quiet confidence, a recognition that if this was possible here, then perhaps it could be possible for me as well. My hands itched to move, to stretch, to practice, to try, but I held still. Observation was the first step. Understanding came next.
And at that moment, I realized the future I had feared might not be so bleak. I could learn. I could adapt. I could grow stronger without losing myself. I could be more than my power—more than my anger, more than my fear.
I opened my eyes and watched the final flickers of light curl around the children, brushing against Lexy’s skin like whispers of energy. I felt a thrill, but also a grounding certainty. They had done something extraordinary here, something no battle, no training exercise, no lesson could have prepared me for.
And it gave me hope.
Hope for control.
Hope for growth.
Hope for balance.
Most of all, hope that the fire and the smoke, the light and the shadow, could coexist—not just within me, but with all of us.
The moment ended as quietly as it began. The garden returned to its usual sounds: rustling leaves, chirping birds, distant calls of the guards. But the feeling lingered in my chest, like a seed planted deep and ready to grow.
I stayed crouched for a long time, watching Lexy rise slowly, her hands still warm from the pulse we had shared. The children blinked and giggled, unaware of the tremor of awe they had left behind. And I realized, fully and without doubt, that I wanted to be like them—calm, grounded, and connected.
For the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to believe that I could be.
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