The days following Euryale's awakening unfolded with new rhythms. Where once his mornings had been simple—chores, fishing, walking Lyra to the stream—now they began with quiet concentration, hands pressed to river water, breath syncing to the pulse of the world around him. There was a strange comfort in this new silence, in the moments between movement when the world seemed to breathe with him.
Master Velin had not left. Nor had Kaelen, the scribe. They had taken temporary residence in the village elder's home, and while Velin seldom spoke, his presence was undeniable. On the third morning after the festival, he arrived at the edge of the garden.
"May I sit?" Velin asked, gesturing toward a stone beside Euryale.
Euryale nodded.
"What do you feel when you hold water in your hands?"
Euryale glanced down at the puddle forming between his fingers. "Like it's listening. Like I don't need to speak to it for it to move."
Velin nodded approvingly. "Then it is a true affinity. Not just talent, but harmony. Spirit and water are sisters. You will find one leads to the other."
He let that thought hang in the air.
Euryale looked at him. "What about the third one? The strange one?"
Velin's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "That... will take time. But beware. Void doesn't obey. It consumes. You must master yourself before you try to master it."
From then on, Velin returned each morning. Sometimes he taught through questions, sometimes through silence. One morning, he simply handed Euryale a flower and asked him to make it bloom using only his thoughts. It took hours, but when a single petal moved, Velin only smiled.
Other days, the lessons were more active. Euryale was instructed to move through sets of motions blindfolded, relying only on his sense of space and water around him. Velin called this the Dance of Stillness—finding the still point within motion, the center within chaos. "You do not bend the elements to your will," Velin explained. "You ask. And if they trust you, they respond."
Kaelen observed from a distance, always writing, always watching. Euryale wasn't sure if Kaelen liked him or simply recorded his progress. When asked, Kaelen would only reply, "My task is to witness. Nothing more."
Amara, meanwhile, remained his closest companion. She and Euryale practiced in the afternoons. She taught him how to ride the wind currents between trees, and he taught her how to pull water upward into floating beads. They began developing a silent rhythm—each sensing where the other was going before they moved.
One afternoon, as they sat beneath a fig tree, Amara turned to him. "Do you want to go with them? To their realms?"
Euryale was quiet for a moment. "I don't know yet. I think... I want to learn, but not leave. Not yet."
She nodded. "Good. Some people run toward power. But you're not running. You're listening. That's rarer than any affinity."
He looked at her then, really looked. There was a calm in her gaze, a steadiness that reminded him of Xena's. "Why are you still here? Your group left days ago."
She shrugged. "My brother told me to stay and observe. He didn't say how long. I don't think he wants them to get you first."
"Them?"
"Velin. The Hollow Temple. The Dominion. You're a prize to them. They think you're the start of something."
Euryale shook his head. "I'm just me."
Amara smiled gently. "Exactly. That's what makes you dangerous."
At home, the rhythms of family life went on. Salah's hands were always rough with salt and rope, but his voice remained soft in the evenings. Xena baked flatbreads in the morning and hummed lullabies while combing Lyra's hair. Silas had begun crafting wooden figurines again—this time a tiny version of Euryale standing with arms raised toward the sky.
"This is your battle pose," Silas explained proudly.
"I haven't even fought anyone," Euryale laughed.
"Yet," Silas replied with dramatic seriousness.
In the evenings, the family sat around the fire. Euryale would sometimes share bits of what he learned with Velin, though he always left out the parts that stirred strange feelings—like when he could feel the pulse of water in people's blood, or how shadows seemed to whisper when he walked through certain parts of the forest.
One evening, Salah brought out a carved wooden box from a high shelf. Inside it were keepsakes: a silver comb from Xena's wedding, a shell bracelet Silas made as a toddler, and a blue stone with strange veins—one Euryale had picked up as a child and claimed was magic.
"We want you to keep this," Salah said, handing him the box.
Euryale blinked. "But this is your memory box."
"It's ours," Xena corrected. "And now, it's yours too. As you walk forward into new things, carry a little of where you came from."
He held the box in his lap, fingers gently tracing the wood grain. He didn't cry, but he felt something settle inside his chest—something quiet, anchoring.
"Will they make me leave?" he asked suddenly.
Salah met his eyes. "Only if you choose to. No one owns your path but you."
Euryale nodded slowly, hugging the box to his chest.
Velin gave his final lesson at the end of the second week. He placed a mirror in front of Euryale and said, "Before you leave this village—whether in one year or ten—you must look into this and say who you are. Not who others see. Not what your affinities are. But who you are. When you know that, return it to me."
And with that, the master stood and walked away.
Euryale looked into the mirror. His reflection blinked back—soft eyes, a boy's jawline slowly sharpening, hair curling gently around his face. He didn't yet know how to answer the question. But he was beginning to hear the shape of it, in the quiet between his breaths, in the ripple of water, and in the light of his family's eyes.
He returned the mirror to his room and tucked it under his bed, knowing the answer would take time.
That night, when the stars emerged, Euryale stepped outside. Amara was already sitting on the fence, legs dangling.
"Still thinking about what he said?" she asked.
Euryale nodded.
"You don't need to answer him yet."
"I know," he said. "But I want to. One day."
They sat in silence, watching the fireflies float like tiny stars below the trees.
And far above them, real stars gathered—patient, ancient, waiting.