Three weeks had passed.
Aria had memorized every inch of the estate: the exact number of floor tiles from her door to the greenhouse, the creaking cadence of the westward stairs, even the number of seconds it took the guards outside her room to swap shifts.
She wasn't counting because she wanted to escape.
She was counting because she needed to stay sane.
Riven, as promised—or threatened—had remained. Whether out of duty or curiosity, he now occupied a room two doors down, and spent each day tormenting her with lessons disguised as sparring sessions.
"Again," he barked.
Aria scowled, sweat trickling down her temple. Her breath came in shallow bursts, her arms aching from the last bout. The golden glyphs along her collarbone pulsed faintly, her magic still bubbling just beneath the surface.
"This time, you dodge before the fireball smacks you in the face."
"I did dodge," she hissed. "It just curved like a cheating little—"
Riven flicked a finger, and another orb of compressed air launched toward her chest. She instinctively threw her hand up. Gold shimmered—her new shield spell locking into place with a satisfying clink. The orb shattered harmlessly against it.
"Better," he said.
Aria panted. "You know, normal tutors start with, like… spelling."
"You're not normal. You're a Valemir. And you glow like an angry sun when you're pissed off."
He stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "Again."
And so it went.
Days turned into routines. Her mornings were filled with combat—runes, pressure, magical flow. Afternoons were reserved for more structured lessons: control, meditation, focus. And evenings? Locked in her room, under strict watch, usually pacing by the window, whispering to herself like a mad poet.
She was thirteen now. And power—or the threat of it—hummed through her like a second heartbeat. Golden threads weaved around her fingertips during sleep. The stone beneath her sometimes cracked from sheer tension when she got upset.
But she was learning. Fast.
Too fast, perhaps.
One day, during a particularly brutal session, Riven decided to push harder.
He caught her off guard, sweeping her legs with a flicker of shadow magic. She fell—hard—her shoulder smacking the training floor.
She cursed under her breath and rolled up, but too slow.
He was already there.
Sword to her throat. "Dead."
She glared up at him, cheeks flushed. "You really like the whole 'surprise attack' thing, huh?"
He smirked. "Real enemies don't wait for you to tie your boots."
With one swift movement, she slapped his blade aside with a spark of gold and swept his legs in return. This time, it was he who landed with a loud thud.
Aria stood over him, hair windswept, gold licking around her wrists like firelight.
"Oops," she said sweetly. "Real pupils don't warn before payback."
Riven coughed, then blinked up at her, unimpressed. "Cute. Try that again, and I'm using lightning next time."
"Try it," she challenged. "I'll just borrow it like your shadow spell yesterday."
"…You what?"
She twirled a hand, and to his utter horror, a wisp of his own shadow magic twisted from her fingers.
"I learn fast," she said, eyes gleaming. "You should've read the fine print on tutoring me."
Riven sat up, groaning. "You're a walking headache."
"And you're a dramatic gremlin with a sword."
They stared at each other, the silence heavy, until they both—just barely—cracked a smile. Then she offered him a hand.
He took it, reluctantly.
Later that night, Aria sat by her window, legs curled beneath her, the stars glittering like distant answers.
A new spell danced across her open palm: a shimmering golden thread she had unraveled from shadow, reshaped into something entirely her own.
A binding weave.
A way to tether magic—redirect, absorb, rewrite.
Not just power.
Control.
Real, terrifying, beautiful control.
And for the first time since she'd been locked away, she didn't feel like a prisoner.
She felt like a storm waiting for its hour.