Randall threw up his hands, frustration breaking through the careful control he had been maintaining. “Fine. Fine. I’ll do it.”

  He stepped forward and switched places with Meka at the center of the circle. She moved without hesitation, giving him the space as though the decision had already been made for him. As Randall sat, however, he chose a posture that immediately caught my attention and held it. Both legs crossed. One hand pointed straight upward, fingers rigid. The other crossed his body, tucked beneath his arm, palm angled in the same direction as the first. A Bahavian pose, precise and deliberate.

  It was designed to channel vented mana upward, away from the ground and anything living that might be rooted there.

  I recognized it instantly, and I also recognized the problem just as quickly.

  The pose was careful and thoughtful, probably the most care I had ever seen Randall take in a training exercise that did not involve destroying something. It spoke to preparation and premeditation. Unfortunately, we were in a very short room, and fire mana did not respect ceilings any more than it respected floors. If he vented like that, the rafters would ignite before he had time to react, and the damage would not stop there.

  “Put your hands down,” I said.

  He looked up at me, brows drawing together. “This is a proper position.”

  “It is not the right pose,” I cut in, leaving no room for argument. “Use a standard cycling position. I do not want you burning the ceiling when you vent.”

  Randall stared at me for a long moment, eyes searching my face for something he could challenge. Finding nothing, he lowered his arms with visible irritation, his movements sharp and resentful. I noted the correction and let it stand.

  I began to walk around him.

  At first, I did not speak or ask anything. I simply circled him slowly, my footsteps measured, my presence constant and unavoidable. The silence stretched and thickened the air, and it irritated him. I could see it in the tension of his shoulders and the way his jaw set harder with every step I took. That was the point.

  When I passed behind him for the first time, I leaned in just enough for my voice to reach him alone and whispered, “You’re a coward.”

  Randall flinched at the words.

  He did not speak. His jaw tightened further, the muscles in his neck standing out as he turned his eyes toward me, sharp and offended, as though I had insulted him for no reason at all. That was not entirely untrue, but in this moment, the insult served a purpose beyond courtesy.

  I completed another slow circle, letting the words settle before speaking again.

  “You’re scared,” I said quietly.

  “I’m scared of nothing,” he snapped, the response too quick and rehearsed.

  “Oh, really?” I said, stopping in front of him and meeting his gaze directly. “Then tell me something. If you fear nothing, why did you avoid the long grass Meka grew?”

  His eyes flicked to the side before he could stop himself.

  “I saw it when you walked in,” I continued. “You went out of your way to walk around it, even though the most direct path was straight through.”

  He scoffed and lifted his chin. “Because it can cut you and cause itching. I was being practical. I did not want it damaging my clothes.”

  “Randall,” I said evenly, “there was a rose bush closer to you than that long grass. You walked nearer to something that was clearly more dangerous, yet you chose to give the long grass a wide berth.”

  Each time I said the words long grass, Randall reacted, only slightly and barely enough to see unless you were looking for it. The tell showed itself in the tension of his posture and the subtle shift of his breathing.

  “If you are not afraid,” I said, “turn and look at it. Stare directly into it. There is nothing to worry about, correct?”

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  He remained still and did not turn.

  “No,” he said after a pause that stretched too long. “I do not think I will.”

  “Is that because you’re a coward?” I asked. “Because you’re a chicken-shit?”

  His eyes snapped back to mine, anger flashing bright and uncontrolled.

  “Or is it because when you see that long grass, you see yourself burning everything inside it?” I pressed. “Including yourself. Including everyone else.”

  I cut straight to the heart of it and did not look away as I spoke.

  I had seen this fear before. It was not uncommon among those raised in places where tall grass hid snakes, predators, and unseen threats that struck from concealment. For a pyromancer, it was worse. Fire promised safety and certainty, but in close quarters it became a death sentence. Burn the long grass and you burned everything in it. Stand within the long grass, and you died with it. The environment stripped fire of its certainty and turned overwhelming power into helplessness.

  The fear made sense, even if he hated that it did.

  Randall tried to look away without fully turning, shifting just enough to suggest indifference without committing to it. He could not bring himself to face it.

  “Close your eyes,” I said.

  He hesitated, his breath hitching before he masked it.

  “Listen to me,” I continued. “Do what I say, and I promise you the long grass will never be a problem again.”

  “Why would you do that?” His voice was tight.

  “Because I will teach you to be more than a pyromancer,” I said. “If you let me.”

  “I will not take your deal, child.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “Are you sure you want to live with this fear forever? Even if the Church came for you, how would they know unless you showed them your magic? You could protect yourself. You could protect others, even in the place you fear.”

  I let the silence settle between us, heavy and deliberate, before speaking again.

  “But if you do not want that,” I said at last, “I will still help you conquer this fear. I simply will not teach you anything else.”

  He clicked his tongue and exhaled sharply, the sound sharp with frustration. Then he opened his eyes and looked at me. “So what is the deal, child?”

  “When the time comes,” I said, “I will be the teacher of your class. You will not be my apprentice, but you will learn how to teach from me. You will be diligent. You will help the students.”

  “Why would you want that?”

  “Because I believe the martial and magical disciplines should be taught together,” I said. “Everyone has something to learn from everyone else.”

  He laughed, short and disbelieving. “Greta will never agree to that.”

  “You would be surprised,” I said. “If she understands that I am trying to teach properly, I believe she can be convinced.”

  “I see no reason to accept this,” he said, looking at me as though I were asking him to step off a cliff rather than into a classroom.

  “I am not asking for your money,” I replied.

  He stared at me, clearly thrown. “What?”

  “I do not want your freds,” I said. “I do not want you teaching children the wrong way.”

  His expression darkened, something more guarded settling over it. “The Duke will not approve. I am Oliver’s magical instructor. That is why I am stationed here. He pulled strings to place me close to Clarice.”

  He hesitated, then continued in a lower voice. “I tell you this because no matter what you think you can do, I am obligated to teach Oliver. Even if I neglect every other student, I owe the Duke that much.”

  I rubbed my chin out of habit, still mourning the beard I did not have. “That will be fine.” “Then you and I will teach Oliver together. Or I will teach you properly, and you will teach him.”

  He shook his head. “You do not understand. You are not an all-powerful wizard. You are a child, a tin-rank. You have no standing. You are in the martial class. You cannot teach and train at the same time. What you are asking is impossible.”

  “I think we can figure something out,” I said calmly. “And it sounds like you are not entirely opposed.”

  “I said I can’t do that,” he said, steel edging his voice as he set his jaw.

  “Yes,” I replied. “But that is not the same thing as saying you don't want to.”

  He said nothing for a moment, eyes unfocused as he stared past me, and then spoke again. “Do I just do what you did with her?” he asked. “Think about this so-called fear of mine and follow what you did with Meka?”

  “No,” I said. “Her fear was younger. You’ve been living with yours your entire life.” I paused, then added, “How old are you, Randall?”

  He frowned. “Thirty-five. One of the youngest graduates. Gold-rank equivalent.” He hesitated, then added defensively, “And I am a wizard.”

  “All right,” I said.

  The words grated on my ears. In my soul, I knew he was not, but I let it go.

  “You are going to need to see that fear,” I continued. “That is one of the reasons I brought Meka here.” I turned my head slightly. “Meka, can you call Bunny over? We are going to need a lot of long grass. And it needs to end right at the sandpit, so we do not all die.”

  “I have not agreed to anything,” he said.

  “No,” I replied. “But I am going to do this anyway.” I met his eyes. “Because I am certain there is more to you than you wish to admit. And if we can strip away that fear, that lack of control that keeps you trapped in your immediate wants and impulses, then we should.”

  I took a breath before continuing. “Maybe you will be a good person afterward. Maybe you will not. But at least I will have tried.”

  I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “And know this, Randall. If you use what I am about to give you for cruelty, I will come for you. If you use this control to hurt others, I will end you utterly.”

  He stared at me, and for a heartbeat it looked like he might laugh. I was a three-year-old child with a staff, pretending to stroke a beard that did not exist. But my eyes were white, empty, and wrong. Not playful. Not childish.

  The humor never came.

  He nodded once. “I will not harm others with what you give me,” he said quietly.