“Mara, look at me.” Mara focuses on Aeserast’s calm expression. She can tell he had expected the orb to do this. “You need to figure out what is causing your anxiety. Your Source and emotions are very closely related; once one is out of control, so is the other. Think of it like a chain reaction. Try some of your meditation techniques.”

“What exactly do I need to do?” Mara asks, already regulating her breathing.

An ominous crack emanates from the globe.

Aeserast sighs. “What is bothering you?”

A black line appears just underneath the surface of the globe. She stares at the fragile orb in her hand. “How do I keep it from breaking?” Mara murmurs, a small frown creasing her brow. How is it even doing this? Is it those little lightning bolts? She squints at the orb; sure enough, little silver sparks are racing across the glowing off-white surface.

“Focus, Mara. Pinpoint where the problem is,” he reiterates, guiding Mara in a calm voice.

Mara closes her eyes and focuses inward. She settles her racing thoughts, shoving them into their respective categories. Years of training and meditation – both with her father and through all of her defense classes – had taught her this level of control over her mind.

Somewhere in the deep, deep recesses of her mind, she feels an odd pressure and discovers silver sparks smothering a core of black, writhing tendrils. Mara takes a deep breath, calming her nerves. Both of the colors settle down.

Mara frowns, trying to figure out what this blob is. Is this Source? How am I supposed to control it? she thinks to herself, suddenly uneasy. The silver sparks and black tendrils strike against one another in response to her sudden distress.

An irrational, volatile thought crosses through her mind. Maybe… maybe they’re right. Maybe it is reacting to my emotions.

The orb explodes.

Glass flies past her face, grazing her cheek. The memory of a broken window and men ransacking the house flashes through her mind almost too fast for her to comprehend. She doesn’t remember anyone breaking into their home, though; it is as if the memory is not her own.

Aeserast wraps his fingers around Mara’s wrists, turning her cut palms toward him. Calmness seeps into her as he delicately plucks the glowing glass shards out of her hand. “Are you all right?”

“I-I think so,” she whispers. He glances up, and his purple eyes trap her in his gaze. She swallows, trying to ignore their proximity. “What just happened?”

Aeserast’s eyes crinkle slightly as he smiles, and he suddenly looks older than twenty. “You are learning how to control the power you were born with.”

Mara takes a deep breath, knowing he is helping her regulate her churning emotions. “What if I can’t control it?”

He holds both of her hands, covering the wounds. His warm fingers glow a soft lavender. When he pulls away, the minor scratches are completely healed while the bigger cuts have stopped bleeding. His smile is soft and trusting.

“You are a Danarko,” he says simply, waving his hand over the orb. A nearly transparent purple mist slowly collects the shattered fragments and coalesces them into the small egg-shaped glass. “You will figure it out.”

He sets the fixed Source globe on her healed palm. It glows brightly.

~ • ~

Mara easily slips into a routine at the mansion. In the mornings, she trains with Codi; occasionally, Shaniel will pop in and comment on their form, giving them tips. Mara notices he is overly cautious around her as if afraid she will punch him and cannot help but antagonize him a bit by throwing some wild punches or kicks his way which more often than not results in her flat on her back, glaring up at her superior.

Before or during lunch, she will go a round or two of a strategy game with either Codi or Shaniel – and with this one, she more often than not metaphorically puts them on their backs.

Her afternoons are dedicated to studying or working on Aeserast’s exercises; she has finally stopped shattering the orb every single time she holds it, but she is having trouble keeping it a stable size.

About two weeks after she had started training with Aeserast, Mara sits cross-legged with a glowing, distorted orb in her hand that fluctuates from one size to another. A soft breeze blows her hair into her face, distracting her. She glances at her nicely dressed companion as she tucks the stray locks behind her ear.

Aeserast reaches into thin air, his hand momentarily disappearing in a wave of distorted space. When he pulls it back, he holds a book. Amazed, Mara gapes, the globe dimming temporarily before shattering in her hand again. This time, though, it does not cut her.

“How did you do that?” she asks as he waves his hand without looking up. The faint purple mist pieces together the orb again.

“Teleportation hole,” he murmurs almost absently, picking up the orb. “It can be used to relocate oneself, such as how we went from Earth to Blazhreia, or as a way of retrieving things if you know exactly where the item is and what it looks like.”

Teleportation hole, she repeats in her mind, frowning. That is a long phrase. Teleporting hole… no. Porting hole? “Portal,” she whispers as he deposits the egg in her hand. Before it even strikes her palm, it is bigger than a softball.

“Yes.” He smiles at her. “Teleportation hole is the official name of portals, although over the centuries, slang has made it shorter and shorter.”

“Next they’ll just be calling them holes or ports,” Mara jokes lightly, refocusing on the orb. She thinks of the writhing black ball surrounded by the silver sparks and takes several deep breaths. In her mind, the ball stops thrashing as much. Peeking at the orb, she fights to keep from jumping in joy.

The orb is finally a stable size; still much bigger than all of the other orbs, but at least it does not break. Only two thin black cracks run just underneath the surface.

Aeserast glances over and nods. “Good. Try to reduce the size.”

“… I did.”

Frowning, Aeserast closes the book and leans forward. “Mara, you are still putting out a lot. You need to pull it in.”

Mara stares at him quizzically, careful to keep her emotions in check since she is still holding the orb. “That’s what I did.”

“Your Source did recede somewhat, but…” Suddenly, his eyes widen. He cups Mara’s face with his hands, staring into her eyes. She feels an odd sensation of something at the edge of her mind, foreign and unfamiliar. Startled, Mara tries to pull away from him, but he does not let her go.

The Source globe between them explodes.

Wincing, Aeserast drops his hands to pick at his now tattered silky shirt. Mara clenches her jaw as she carefully pulls out the piece of glass lodged deep in her palm.

“What was that about?” Mara asks, still a little rattled at how close he had gotten.

Aeserast lifts the hem of his shirt to expose small shards of glass lodged in a well-toned abdomen. Taking a deep breath, he pulls them out. A bluish-purple liquid seeps from the wounds. “I thought your eyes had changed colors.”

“That’s the worst lie ever,” Mara says flatly as he does his best to heal himself. Apparently, he is only good at very minor healing ‘spells,’ as the bigger cuts remain.

Aeserast grits his teeth as he finishes healing himself the best he can. “It’s not a lie, Mara. It happens to individuals with high amounts of Source. For example, my eyes sometimes turn a darker or lighter shade of purple.” He notices her guarded expression, and his eyes widen. “Ah. I would never do anything like that, Mara; you are like a niece to me.”

“Good,” she mutters, “because you’re like my uncle. Why are your eyes purple, anyway?”

He chuckles. “It is because of my Quanaret blood – fey blood. Their Source permeates their physical form, so their body may take on the hue of their Source. I’m only part Quanaret, though, so it is just my hair and eyes. My Alkinian blood helps regulate the Source distribution.”

“Mine’s silver…” and black, she finishes, wondering whether or not to say that. She has only ever seen one working physically, though. Maybe the other one is broken, she tries to theorize and almost laughs at the thought. “An Alkinian is an elf, right?” she asks, curious. She had read the physical description of them just last night.

Aeserast gives her an odd look. “Has Ezra not told you yet, Mara?” She tilts her head to the side quizzically. “You’re Alkinian.”

She immediately touches her ears. They are long, but definitely not pointed. “Are you sure?”

He shakes his head. “When an elf fully matures, their ears grow pointed. Typically, this is between eighteen and twenty-four years old. Elves live for several hundred years, so this gap is nothing to them.”

Mara fingers the tip of her ear, feeling the round curve that will someday turn into a point. She shakes her head. “Then what about my sixteenth birthday? What’s that about?”

Aeserast smirks. “That has been around in some form or another for centuries. The Blazhreians – especially those from Garnesh – believe a child is an adult once they turn sixteen. Many children go into their profession and begin training at this age, giving them ample time to work up the ranks. Even Cerlail Academy, the hub of Source research and education, has adopted this practice. You must be sixteen to attend.”

“It’s pretty new, right?” she asks. Codi had been gushing over the Academy’s smooth operation despite being relatively young when compared to other practices.

Aeserast nods. “Just a few years older than you, in fact. Your father designed the infrastructure it is built around. He thought the Highlord’s robes were so amazing he wanted other mages, sorcerers, and medics to wear them, too,” Aeserast adds, grinning.

Mara gasps. “Dad?” Her head spins.