Veins of starlight

The mornings in Sector 7 were unnaturally quiet now. With the city's outer rim barely clinging to life, many of its inhabitants had fled inward to the more stable central districts. But Anya and Tarek remained, determined to use the empty streets and dilapidated buildings to their advantage.

The day began as it always did—Tarek pacing nervously while Anya stood in the courtyard, her arms outstretched and her golden veins faintly glowing.

"Alright," Tarek said, rubbing his hands together. "We've learned you can blast holes in things when you're angry. Not exactly practical in a fight, so today we'll focus on control."

Anya rolled her eyes. "You make it sound so easy."

"Because it has to be," Tarek replied. "You don't have the luxury of waiting around. The Mistwalkers are getting braver every day, and if you can't focus your power, you're as good as dead."

"Thanks for the motivational speech," she muttered.

He tossed her a small metal disc. "Here. Focus your energy on this. Just enough to make it glow."

Anya caught the disc, feeling its cold, smooth surface in her hand. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to summon the familiar warmth in her chest.

At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, she felt the heat building, spreading down her arm and into her palm. The golden veins brightened, and the disc began to glow faintly.

"Good," Tarek said, his tone cautious. "Now hold it steady."

The glow flickered, then surged. Anya's fingers tightened around the disc as the heat spiked, threatening to escape her control.

"Breathe," Tarek said sharply. "Don't let it take over."

She tried to focus, tried to will the light back into her body, but it was like holding back a flood. The glow intensified, and the disc suddenly exploded in her hand, sending shards of metal flying.

"Damn it!" she shouted, shaking her stinging fingers.

Tarek ducked behind a pile of rubble, his face pale. "Okay, maybe the disc wasn't the best idea."

Anya glared at him. "You think?"

The next exercise involved movement. Tarek set up a series of targets—empty barrels, old crates, and pieces of scrap metal—arranged in a rough circle around the courtyard.

"Your problem," he explained, "is that you're trying to force your power into something it's not. It's not a sword or a rifle. It's you. You need to think of it as an extension of yourself."

Anya frowned. "That sounds… vague."

"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly an expert on glowing arm magic," Tarek shot back. "Now stop complaining and focus."

She sighed and positioned herself in the center of the targets. The idea was simple: move quickly between the targets, releasing just enough energy to knock each one over without losing control.

The first few attempts were a disaster. Anya's blasts were either too weak to move the targets or too strong, reducing them to splinters. Her frustration mounted with every failure, the heat in her chest growing more erratic.

"I can't do this!" she shouted after another crate shattered into pieces.

"Yes, you can!" Tarek yelled back. "Stop fighting it! The power isn't your enemy—it's your tool! Use it!"

His words struck a chord. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. This time, instead of trying to suppress the heat, she let it flow freely, guiding it with her thoughts.

When she opened her eyes, her veins were glowing steadily, and the heat no longer felt overwhelming. She moved to the first target and released a small burst of light, just enough to knock the barrel over.

"Better," Tarek said, nodding approvingly.

She moved to the next target, then the next, each blast more controlled than the last. By the time she finished the circuit, her breaths were ragged, but the satisfaction in her chest was undeniable.

The progress didn't come without cost. Each session left Anya exhausted, her body aching from the strain of channeling so much energy. Tarek tried to keep her spirits up, but she could see the worry in his eyes.

One evening, as they sat by the fire in the workshop, he handed her a small notebook.

"What's this?" she asked, flipping through the blank pages.

"A journal," he said. "Write everything down—what works, what doesn't, how it feels when you're using your power. Maybe it'll help you figure out what's going on inside you."

Anya stared at the notebook for a moment, then nodded. "Thanks."

"You're getting better," Tarek said, his voice softer now. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but you are."

"Better isn't enough," she said quietly. "If the dome breaks again, I need to be ready. I need to protect people."

"You will," Tarek said. "But you can't carry the whole city on your shoulders, Anya. You're not alone."

She looked at him, her chest tightening. Tarek had been by her side through everything, risking his life to help her when he could have fled like so many others. She didn't know how to put her gratitude into words, so she simply nodded.

The next morning, they pushed her training further. Tarek had managed to salvage a small sunforged blade from the wreckage of the guard tower, and he handed it to Anya with a grim expression.

"Time to see how your power works in a fight," he said.

Anya held the blade, its faint glow matching the light in her veins. She wasn't a fighter—her parents had made sure she'd never have to be—but as she gripped the weapon, something about it felt… natural.

"Ready?" Tarek asked.

She nodded, and he activated the makeshift training dummy—a rickety contraption built from scraps and old gears. It lunged at her, its wooden arms swinging wildly.

Anya dodged the first swing, her movements clumsy but quick. She slashed with the blade, channeling a burst of light into the strike. The dummy's arm shattered, and she spun to avoid its counterattack.

"Good!" Tarek shouted. "Keep moving!"

The fight lasted only a minute, but by the end, Anya was drenched in sweat, her chest heaving. The dummy lay in pieces at her feet, its remains glowing faintly from her attacks.

"You're getting there," Tarek said, clapping her on the shoulder. "Still rough around the edges, but we'll fix that."

Anya looked at the wreckage, her fists tightening. She wasn't sure how much time they had left before the next attack, but one thing was certain: she wouldn't let herself be powerless again.