Syraa arrived a little after Varek. The sun had set, the only light was that of the moon, and the glow of the stars. She found him leaning against the thick trunk of the old oak tree, his horse tied a few steps farther. Her smile instantly softened him in a way nothing else could.

“I thought you changed your mind,” he teased, masking his own worries behind banter.

“I would never,” she shot back with a wink. “Had a late customer, that’s all. I should have closed sooner.”

He nodded as he reached over behind the oak. He grabbed two weathered practice staves and threw one to her. She caught it almost instinctively, but her eyes narrowed in confusion.

“What’s this for?” she asked, testing the weight of the staff.

“Practice,” he said briskly, spinning it in his hand.

“I thought we’d go straight to fire,” she muttered, eyes on the ground, kicking the dirt with the toe of her boot.

“We will, after this.” Varek stepped back, into position. “Okay, hit me.”

Syraa’s eyebrows lifted all the way up.

“Come on, it’s practice. Hit me.”

Syraa gave him a half-hearted swing that he parried without a thought.

“You hand out herbs with more conviction,” he teased, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Try like you mean it.”

She sighed and adjusted her grip.  She gave him another swing, this one sharper, but still imperfect. Varek blocked it with a flick of his wrist.

“That was better. But watch your feet.”

He stepped closer, nudged her foot with his own until her stance widened. “Here. Weight balanced. Ready to move, not topple.”

She scowled, tightening her grip on the staff.

“I thought this was supposed to be about fire, not… footwork.”

“It is. You just don’t see it yet.” He gently nudged her shoulder until she raised it properly. “Your body listens before your spark does. So. Again.”

They repeated the same motion. Again. And again.

At every correction, every repetition, he spoke.

“Did you know, that the staff imitates a spear? The spear was the traditional weapon of the fireborn royal guard. They trained like this, through persistence, and repetition.”

“Training your body trains your mind. Doing such repetitive movements trains muscle memory, and resilience.”

“It is not about perfection; it is about deliberate control. If you learn to control your body, you’ll learn to control your energies. Again.”

After what she felt was the thousandth time, her shoulders burned. Her fingers ached. The staff slipped once, twice, and he only made her pick it up and start over.

Finally, she snapped, breath coming fast.

“Gods, Varek! Do you ever stop?”

He just gave her a maddeningly calm look. “Eventually, yes.”

She groaned. She gritted her teeth and swung harder, sharper, her whole body behind it this time. He deflected, but his smile broke through when his eyes caught the shimmer in hers.

“That’s it. What do you feel?”

Syraa blinked, panting. “I feel… annoyed. Been doing the same move for a million times.”

“Be precise. What else, exactly?”

She hesitated, before she spoke.

“I… don’t know. My breathing is fast. Heart is faster. There’s a tingling in my fingers. Like a kind of heat. I feel… annoyed with the repetition. Impatient, perhaps.”

His eyes lit with approval. “Remember this feeling. The energy. Now, close your eyes.”

She frowned but obeyed. He stepped closer, gently taking her hand, turning her palm upward.

“Feel the warmth flowing through you. Breathe. Slow. Call that fire into your fingertips. All of it. Don’t force it. Just… guide it.”

Her chest rose and fell with deliberate breaths. Silence settled. She heard as her heartbeat quieted. She listened to her slowing breaths.

“Open your eyes,” Varek whispered.

Her eyes blinked open to a small flame dancing in her palm. Small, but definitely there, and definitely hers. It faded away as her concentration faltered, but she gasped with a wide smirk.

 “Did you see that?”

“I did.” His voice was quiet, proud, his fingertips still brushing the back of her hand as he gave her support.

Her fingers curled in, as if trying to hold the flame in her fist. The staff fell to the ground. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The night was still: their breaths, the soft whisper of leaves, the stars above.

“But… not all fireborn are fighters, and yet they still use fire? Why did we have to do that first?” she asked, heart still pounding in excitement.

“It is different when you are a child,” he started, sitting onto the log. He piled up a few branches and lit them on fire with a small flick of his wrist. Syraa sat beside him, her eyes searching his.

“In your childhood you anyway go through such emotional states. When you get into a fight, get scared… or when your sister is giving you too much grief,” he went on, smiling at memories.

“Is that what happened with you?” Syraa prodded, but Varek just nodded. He didn’t talk any more about his family.

The fire picked up, and he tossed a bigger log onto it.

“These emotional states awaken your spark. When you’re an adult… we need to push it a bit harder. I’m sure there are other ways, but… training usually works just fine.” He looked at her now, smiling.

“Once your spark awakened, every time you try to call your fire, it will become easier. Until it will feel like second nature. You’ll be able to not only light things on fire, but…,” he paused as he held out his hand for her to touch. She felt his skin warming under her touch.

“You’ll also be able to control it enough to provide only warmth. Heat without fire, through your own body. Or channel the fire into objects without summoning an actual flame.”

He pulled up two small pieces of wood.

“See this,” he whispered as he summoned a flame and directed it onto the wood. It caught fire easily.

“And this.” He hovered a hand near the other branch. It caught fire as if on its own. “Did you see the difference?”

She nodded, mesmerized, concentrated.

Varek urged her to try to call her fire again. He guided her through her own mind. It didn’t come at first try, not even on the second. But as her concentration deepened and her mind quieted, she felt the warmth spread into her fingertips again. Flames licked her skin, stronger than the first time, and she couldn’t maintain it longer as well.

“Using your fire will tire you, especially in the beginning,” Varek explained, “so don’t be surprised if you feel drained afterwards. Give yourself time to recover.”

She leaned back on her hands, her hair spilling over her shoulders, catching the firelight. He watched it dance across her face; the soft smile, the curve of her jawline, the glint in her eyes.

“Hey, you know what happened today?” she asked suddenly, breaking the quiet. “The tailor’s wife came by. I suppose she’s more of a tailor anyway. Apparently, my mother wants to have a new dress made for me for the festival.” She sighed, shaking her head. “I think she’s trying to set me up with someone.”

Varek’s mouth curved faintly. “Do you want that?”

“What, the dress?”

“No,” he said, voice quieter now, “the meeting. With your mother’s… candidate.”

“Oh, gods, no.” Syraa let out a bitter laugh. “I know all those men she could be thinking of. I’m not interested.” She looked away into the treeline before turning back, her tone softening.
“Besides,” she murmured, “I’ll choose for myself when it’s time. Someone I find suitable.”

Something eased in him at that — or maybe tightened. A small smile tugged at his lips, unreadable.

“Can I see it?” he asked after a moment.

“See what?”

“The dress,” he muttered, suddenly losing all the composure he’d carried through practice.

Syraa huffed a laugh. “I won’t be wearing one. I’m not a dress girl, really. Darleena wants to make it more… mature, she said. But I’m not for the show.”

“I know,” he said softly, eyes on the fire, “but still — tell me if you change your mind. I’m… intrigued.”

The flames flickered, catching in his gaze. She smiled faintly.

Not a promise. Not even an answer.

But a maybe.