Chapter 35 — The Spark

The ground pressed cold into my cheek. My ribs screamed with every breath. One man's knee pinned my arm, another ground my face into the dirt. Their weight was suffocating, their laughter sharp in my ear.

"Worthless without the beast," one spat.

Merlin's snarl cut through, then his yelp—kicked aside. Elira's voice rose, fierce, then broke as she was struck.

Something inside me snapped.

The weight, the dirt, the stench of resin torches—suddenly it wasn't just sensation. It was lines. Threads running through their grips, their stances, the press of their knees, the way their boots anchored them to earth. I saw balance—saw it like a map. Every force had a counterpoint. Every lock had a hinge.

I pulled.

The man pinning my right arm stumbled, his center of weight yanked out from under him. The one on my back pitched forward as if the ground had tilted. I rolled, gasping, and drove my shoulder into the gap, forcing air back into my lungs.

The threads flared brighter for an instant, their bodies like stones set wrong on a wall. I struck with the club, once, twice, the impact guided by that invisible geometry. The scouts reeled, caught off-balance, falling harder than my strength alone could have made them fall.

Then the sight blinked out. The world was just dirt, blood, and smoke again. My chest burned, empty.

I staggered to my feet, club in hand, body trembling. One scout lay groaning, the other flat and still. Elira scrambled upright, powder staining her fingers, a cut on her cheek. Merlin limped back to me, muzzle bloodied but eyes fierce.

The two left standing faltered, eyes wide. Whatever they had expected, it wasn't this.

For the first time, I realized: the balance I'd felt all my life, the instinct that had carried me through fights, climbs, runs—wasn't just instinct. It was the most basic breath of the power I'd dragged from the Caller's hall.

And now they'd seen it.

— Fifteenth day, evening, the spark ignites —