The sun of Oztar illuminated the square, but the light seemed to stop midair, as if something were pushing it back. It wasn’t a violent rejection. It was restrained distrust. April walked beside Star, trying to keep a steady pace, trying to appear like an ordinary person. Every attempt was useless. Her chest tightened with every breath, and with her, the very air seemed to stiffen. As if the world were trying to decide which side to take. A collective shiver broke the balance. Voices lowered. Then they fell silent. Hands tightened around improvised torches, sticks, tools. April felt the change before she even saw it: a dark current moving through the crowd like a slow wave, slipping into their gazes. It belonged to no one. That was exactly why it was so dangerous. April had the impression that the square was breathing as one body. And that she was the only thing out of rhythm.

“Stay away from her,” someone hissed.

The voice had no clear face. It passed from mouth to mouth like a phrase learned by heart. A child fell. His mother grabbed him instantly, pulling him to her chest as if April were a living flame. And April felt the weight of being seen as something that burns, even without meaning to. April stopped.

“Star…” she whispered. “What’s happening?”

Star didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were fixed on the crowd, as if she were trying to untie an invisible knot.

“It’s not them,” she finally said. “Someone is pushing them. Lina and Tomas.”

Somewhere, outside the square, someone smiled. You didn’t need to be present to guide a current. The name fell between them like a blade. The crowd took a step forward. April felt the Blue Thread contract in her chest. It didn’t explode. It didn’t burn. It pressed. A silent, insidious pressure. She inhaled deeply, but the air seemed to resist her. Then it happened. A blue mist rose from the ground, thin as winter breath. It didn’t come from April, but it answered her. It wasn’t a weapon. It was a reflection. And every reflection, if observed too long, can learn to look back. When her chest rose, the mist thickened. When she held her breath, the fog stiffened, suspended. For a moment, April felt that the mist was waiting for a signal. Not from her. The world was learning to breathe with her. And it wasn’t ready. The crowd hesitated. Korvath didn’t give them time to argue.

“Out of the city. Now.”

His body lowered, wings stretched like a barrier. April climbed up without protest. Star followed. When the dragon lifted, the mist scattered like ash in the wind, but April felt it hadn’t disappeared. It had only hidden. Like a thought pretending to be forgotten. They landed in a clearing between dark rocks and ancient trees. The air was colder. More honest. Nothing here would move to protect her.

“Your power is leaking,” Korvath said without preamble. “Not when you use it. When you breathe.”

His pupils narrowed. Not with anger. With fear. It was the sentence April had feared hearing since she realized she was different. April lowered her gaze.

“I can’t stop it.”

“That’s the problem.”

A figure emerged from the edge of the clearing, silent as a line drawn with precision. Light hair, watchful eyes.

“This is Aria,” Korvath said. “She won’t teach you to move water. She will teach you not to.”

Not reacting was far harder than acting. Aria observed April for a long moment.

“You’re unstable,” she said.

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a diagnosis. One that left no room for excuses. For a moment, April saw something that didn’t belong to the clearing. Not trees. Not rocks. White towers reflected in still water. Streets of luminous stone. Distant voices speaking a language she had never learned… and yet understood. Then it all vanished. Like a memory that wasn’t hers. Star took half a step forward.

“She’s doing her best.”

“I know,” Aria said, not taking her eyes off April. “That’s why she’s dangerous.”

She led April to the center of the clearing.

“Don’t raise your hands. Don’t look for the current.”

April hesitated. Silence weighed more than any spell. Because in silence she couldn’t hide behind water.

“Breathe,” Star said softly, behind her.

April inhaled. The mist did not appear. She held her breath. Nothing.

“Again,” Aria ordered.

On the third breath, April felt the Blue Thread move. Not like a wave. Like a restrained pulse.

“Good,” Aria said. “Now stop.”

“I—”

“Stop.”

April clenched her fingers. Her heart raced. For a moment she feared everything would explode. Instead, nothing happened. And that absence struck her more than any explosion. She dropped to her knees, surprised by the emptiness.

“Is this it?” she murmured. “Control?”

“No,” Aria replied. “It’s the limit.”

“And today,” Aria added, “you chose not to cross it.”

Star knelt beside her. She didn’t touch her immediately.

“You stopped before it overwhelmed you.”

April trembled. Not from cold. From awareness.

“If you keep pushing,” Korvath said, “magic will stop waiting for your consent. And then there will be no difference between will and destruction.”

April looked up.

“And if I stop?”

Aria crossed her arms.

“Then you remain yourself.” Not the Blue Veins. Not the Thread. Just April.

The wind swept through the clearing. The water, far away, remained still. Star finally placed a hand on April’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to become something today.”

April closed her eyes. For the first time, silence wasn’t frightening. Because it asked nothing. Far away, the Superior sensed the pause. Not an explosion. A resistance. She smiled.

“She’s learning,” she said.

And that was exactly what made everything more interesting. For a moment, the world remained in balance. In a very distant room, a cup of water trembled on its own. No wind. No visible magic. Only a surface that had just recognized the rhythm of a breath. Night fell. Star grabbed April’s hand.

“Stay with me.”

April nodded. The mist didn’t disappear. It gathered closer, like an animal that had learned to wait. It was hers. Star called her name, but the voice reached April from far away, as if through a wall of water. Star turned suddenly, as if someone had whispered her name behind her. But no one was there. April looked up. Star’s face was so close. Too close. Her eyes wide—not from magic, but from fear. And in that instant April understood one thing: she wasn’t losing control. She was about to lose her. Before she could think, April grabbed Star’s collar and pulled her close. Their lips brushed. A brief, imperfect, trembling contact. For a moment, the Blue Thread did not try to expand. It didn’t reach for the sky. It didn’t seek water. It moved toward Star.

Not a sought-after kiss. An anchor. An instinctive way of saying stay, when words were no longer enough. The water hesitated. The vortex shattered into a thousand suspended droplets, as if the world had held its breath with them. For a moment, not even the darkness dared to move. Star did not pull away. She stayed. Forehead pressed against April’s, her breath entwined with hers. Somewhere, beyond the rooftops, something watched. Not impatiently. With interest. The blue mist moved, following every breath of April, more alive and threatening than it seemed. For an instant, April swore she heard a laugh broken by the wind. Not close. But perfectly confident of itself.