“Slowly…breathe slowly…” Kha whispered into Willem’s ear, the sound like steam as it hissed gently. The words danced around in his skull, echoing incessantly like the buzzing of a gnat even as he struggled to focus. Yet nevertheless he found his breathing slowing, found his mind settling into a once more familiar trance, and that nervous trepidation in his heart slowly began to dissolve. His throat worked gently, soft muttering escaping his lips in a senseless chant as his pulse slowed evermore. His emotions, his thoughts, they all fluttered away out of his grasp; now there was only emptiness in his chest.

He reached out into that gap, reached deep inside of himself for a familiar tether. Shapeless claws searched for the cords of purple mahji that dwelt within the pit of his stomach, searched for that gentle, pulsing warmth that was almost like a second heartbeat. He was grasping now, like a dying hand rising out of the surging sea, and he struggled momentarily. Finally, he felt the briefest flicker of a touch against him, and his hand closed in an instinctive twitch. It was fast as a thought, yet it was still too slow; that solitary ribbon of mahji slipped through his fingers like water, like silk. A spike of frustration surged up inside of him, and it threatened to shake him out of the delicate trance that he had struggled so long to enter.

He dispelled the bitter feeling with difficulty, his chants stumbling for a moment before he tried once more. Again, he reached inside of himself with a scraping claw, and again he felt the fleeting touch of the mahji, Again, he felt that momentary spike of tentative pride, and again it bled through his hands like water. Again, he hissed with desperation, diving after that fleeing magic. Yet his hands came up empty, his heart black with vexation.

“Not like this…with a blank mind…” Kha reprimanded, the demon sounding for all the world like an exasperated teacher talking to a petulant child. Willem felt all the more angry for it, opening his eyes with a surge of fury. The fool made it sound so easy! As if it was merely a matter of thought, he raged to himself, his mouth opening in reflex only for him to stop himself in the end. His fangs were bared, sharp teeth glinting under the sunlight. Yet the movement of aggression did not go unnoticed, and Kha surged forwards with a speed that belied his thin appearance.

“Calm, pup… “ the saurian hissed, his teeth closed tightly around Willem’s throat. The motion had been all too fast for him to even register, his reflexes dulled by emotion, and he could do naught but blink and acquiesce. Slowly, his tensed muscles fell slack, the nervous frustration flowing out of him like water rushing out of a broken dam.

“You say that every time.” Willem growled tiredly as Kha retreated, and he rubbed his neck with a scaled palm. “Yet it never changes.”

The demon snorted derisively, spitting out onto the dirt in a darting motion. “That is because… you do not change, pup… “ Those slitted eyes glinted, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Must be calm… nothing else… nothing you want… nothing you need—”

“You always say that!” Willem interrupted in frustration. “But there will not be time to calm myself when skal’va are ripping us all to shreds!”

There was a pause before the demon responded. “You have done it before… when death was tracing your throat… with fire and flame…” It was not so much a question as a statement, those horizontal pupils staring off into the distance. “Fire is simple… it grows, it feeds… the embers are its seeds… the wind is its pulse… “ Kha murmured, his voice slowly growing more and more urgent as he spoke. “It is greedy… it must be fed…” he hissed, turning to face Willem.

Yet Willem could not remember that feeling, did not wish to recall it. He could see in his mind the shadows and the buzzing dark, like a swarming cloud that fell upon his limbs. He could hear the crackling of his skin, of his weak, human flesh that crumbled so easily under that touch of ice. He could hear the screams of the others, of Kat and Norus, echoing off in the distance. He could feel that desperation in his chest, spreading out through the pit of his stomach. He could feel that magic coursing through his veins and his limbs, could feel it trickling out through his fingertips. He could see it rippling out through the air, a gentle purple ribbon that seemed delicate enough to be broken by the wind; he could see it slowly wrapping around those buzzing shadows. He could see it suddenly burst into a flame, without warning or hesitation. It was by his will, by his unbidden urge that sparked a conflagration.

He could see it all in his mind, the crackling orange flames that swallowed sky and mind, throwing everything else against a flood of torrential heat. He could feel that scorching air against his skin, that cooked him alive through cloth and flesh alike. He could feel that rushing pull of wind, that hurried to feed that insatiable blaze. That was fire, he knew. That monstrous thing of desire and destruction. Fire was the thing that had turned shadow and skin to ash and powder. Fire was the thing that had scarred his heart, that had burnt through his psyche, and his fingers trembled out of that fear. He could not call upon mahji with that fear, could not even touch it with that apprehension.

When Willem opened his eyes, he was alone on that hill. The wind and the sun blew gently against his skin, shone warmly against his back, and he felt his heavy breathing begin to slow. His thumping heart echoed dully in his chest, and he felt a sudden tiredness fall on his mind. Practice had been his sole purpose ever since they had first began to travel through the Heartlands, even when they had fought the legions in the field. Yet he could not use his power—not until he had tamed, and that process had proven more elusive than a myth.

With a soft huff, he felt his eyes close seemingly of their own volition. His sessions always left him feeling weary and empty, utterly drained not just physically but mentally. Even the mere attempts at entering that trancelike state began laborious after many repetitions; it was a feeling like trudging through mud, just to clear all the thoughts from his mind. He wanted nothing better than to lie here and rest, to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. Yet some part of his mind told him to get up, that there was work still to be done. Some part of his mind reminded him of the blood splattering over the mudbanks, reminded him of the screams of agony as men watched their innards splatter into the river. Some part of his mind reminded him of the swarming shadows, that could descend like a cloud of locusts with men as the crops, their wings buzzing out dying voices.

Yet for this moment, at the very least, he wanted no part of that any longer. For this moment, for just a single blessed moment, he wanted nothing more than to rest. There was an aching numbness in his heart, a sensation that he was utterly lost among others; it was a gnawing sensation that had never left him. To his beleaguered mind, it felt like a strange hole in his chest, like pit that he could not peer into. As he leaned over the edge, his own feeble body felt frail with weakness, and he could only tremble.

The winds comforted him, gentle as a mother’s touch—as the mother that he never had. He could feel them against his rough hide, could hear them as they rustled the grasses and the trees. With his eyes closed, they painted a picture of faeries dancing through the meadows, of deer prancing under the moonlight. They cooled the flames in his heated blood, swept together his scattered thoughts. The winds were gentle, ever-present. He wondered just what they might whisper in his ear, these winds that had traveled through the clouds from so far away. Might they speak of the trees in Ossia, or of the deserts in Abaratt?

And yet the winds could be relentless as well, could be as peerless as a storm. They could be peerless, overbearing and dauntless with the pressure of a thousand mountains. They could blow an army to its knees, could uproot a forest. There was no wall that stand in their way, no mountain that could not be ground away by time. The winds knew what they were, when they whispered through the leaves and the grasses; the winds were freedom. The winds belonged to all, for all of the land was their home.

Gently, Willem felt himself lying there in the wind's’ embrace. Gently, he could hear the whispers of lost parents in his ears, their words indistinct and unmistakable. Painfully, his heart throbbed and bled for more, a painful heat spreading out from his chest. That desperate yearning filled his limbs, and he felt himself suddenly surrounded by that soft touch.

Tired and yet content, he wanted nothing more than to stay in that state forever, with nothing to want and nothing to need. When he finally opened his eyes, his gaze settled on a stunning sight: the air around him crackled with purple mahji, swirling faster than a storm.

Yet its touch was soft and gentle as it supported him, as it held him an arm’s length above the ground.