Chapter 6: Training Tasks
The dream clung to her like a second skin for days. It was in the way her pulse jumped when a shadow moved too quickly in the hospital corridor, in the phantom chill at her neck during her midnight rounds. She’d catch her reflection in a darkened monitor and see, for a split second, the woman in the sheer black lace, not the nurse in blue scrubs. She hated it. She hated the way her body betrayed her, flushing with heat at the memory. She threw herself into her work, into the blessedly predictable chaos of human illness and injury, but even there, the world had shifted. She now noticed the too-still orderly in the morgue, the janitor whose eyes glinted yellow under the fluorescents for just a moment. The Veil, once solid, was now threadbare in her sight.
The double life was grinding her down. Days were for fitful sleep interrupted by jarring, sensual dreams. Nights were for the hospital. And three evenings a week, Sera collected her for what she called “fundamentals.”
The training facility was in the basement of a nondescript building in the Loop, accessed through a service elevator that smelled of damp concrete and ozone. It was a stark, mirrored room that echoed with the sounds of impact—the thud of bodies hitting mats, the sharp clack of wooden practice weapons, the sizzle of unleashed energy that made the hair on Liana’s arms stand up.
Tonight, it was empty except for them.
“Again,” Sera said. She stood in the center of a painted circle, dressed in black tactical gear, her silvery hair tied back in a severe knot. She looked like a piece of the night itself, all sharp angles and focused intensity.
Liana, sweating in old leggings and a tank top, stood twenty feet away. Her task was simple: channel a pulse of force, a basic kinetic shove, from her palm to a heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling. Simple in theory. In practice, it was like trying to sneeze on command.
She took a breath, trying to find the quiet place Sera described. The place beneath the tiredness, beneath the residual hum of the dream, beneath the constant low-grade anxiety that was her new normal. She raised her hand, focused on the bag, and pushed with her mind.
A weak gust of air ruffled the bag’s vinyl. It swayed an inch.
“Pathetic,” Sera stated, no malice in it, just fact. “You’re thinking about it. You’re willing it. It’s not an intellectual exercise. It’s an extension of your emotional core. Access the emotion. Shape it. Direct it.”
“I’m trying,” Liana grunted, frustration tightening her shoulders.
“Try less. Feel more. What did you feel when you stabilized the werewolf? When you flared light in the elevator?”
Fear. Panic. A desperate, clawing need to not be devoured. She didn’t want to access that.
“I was scared,” Liana admitted.
“So be scared now. Remember the feeling. Harness it.”
Liana closed her eyes. She deliberately didn’t think of the werewolf. She thought of the elevator. The crushing darkness. The feeling of being prey. A cold trickle of genuine fear, remembered and potent, coiled in her gut. She opened her eyes, saw the bag, and imagined it was the enveloping dark.
She thrust her palm out.
A concussive thump echoed in the gym. The bag jerked violently on its chain, swinging back in a wide arc.
A jolt of triumph shot through her. “Yes!”
“Better,” Sera allowed, a flicker of something that wasn’t disapproval in her golden eyes. “But fear is a crude fuel. Unreliable. It leaks. It tires you out. You burned a week’s worth of energy on one shove. Look at you.”
Liana was panting, a fine tremor in her limbs. She felt hollowed out, dizzy.
“The goal is not to be a emotional reactionary,” Sera continued, walking a slow circle around her. “Any Fae child throwing a tantrum can shatter windows. A terrified werewolf cub can level a wall. Control is what separates a weapon from a wielder. What separates an asset from a liability to the Council.”
“I don’t want to be an asset,” Liana muttered, wiping sweat from her brow.
“What you want is irrelevant. You are one. The only question is whether you become a useful one or a dangerous one they have to put down.” Sera’s voice was flat. “Your power is tied to your emotional state. That is your vulnerability. Until you learn to master your emotions, you will never master your power. You will be a hazard to everyone, especially yourself.”
The words were a cold splash of reality. Put down. Like a rabid dog.
“So how do I master them?” Liana asked, her voice smaller than she intended.
“Meditation. Discipline. Boring, repetitive, mental exercises. You must become the calm in the center of your own storm.” Sera gestured to the mat. “Sit.”
For the next hour, they didn’t move. They sat facing each other, cross-legged. Sera led her through breathing patterns, through visualization exercises—building a wall in her mind, brick by brick, around the churning sea of her feelings. It was agonizing. Liana’s back ached. Her legs went numb.
“Your mind is a busy, noisy place,” Sera observed, her own breathing a slow, steady tide. “Full of clutter.”
“It’s been a weird month,” Liana shot back, eyes still closed.
The corner of Sera’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I’ll bet.”
A sharp, electronic buzz cut the silence. Sera’s phone, set on the mat beside her, vibrated with an aggressive urgency. She opened one eye, glanced at the screen, and her entire demeanor snapped from mentor to soldier in an instant. The relaxed set of her shoulders vanished, replaced by coiled readiness.
She stood in one fluid motion, grabbing the phone. “Veridian.” She listened for a moment, her gold eyes narrowing. “Understood. On my way.” She ended the call and looked down at Liana, who was still trying to unknot her legs. “We’re done. There’s a matter I need to attend to.”
“Is everything okay?” Liana asked, staggering to her feet, her muscles protesting.
“Council business. Nothing for you to concern yourself with yet.” Sera was already striding toward the door, gathering her jacket. “Go home. Actually rest. Your mental fatigue is worse than your physical exhaustion. You’re no use to anyone like this.”
Before Liana could ask another question, Sera was gone, the heavy door sighing shut behind her. The sudden silence in the gym felt heavier than before, pressing in on her. No use to anyone. The words stung, mostly because they felt true.
The L train home was a blur of flickering lights and anonymous faces. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, watching the darkened city stream past. The calm center Sera wanted her to find felt like a myth. All she had was the storm—the lingering ache of training, the vivid, unwelcome flashes of crimson-draped rooms and piercing red eyes, the gritty reality of her hospital shifts. Two worlds, both demanding, and she was failing to find solid ground in either.
Her apartment building was a quiet, slightly shabby sanctuary. She fumbled with her keys at the door, her mind already on a hot shower and the bleak comfort of her couch. Then she saw it.
A long, slender box tied with a charcoal silk ribbon sat propped against her door. No label. No postage. It hadn’t been delivered; it had been placed.
A cold thread of alarm slipped down her spine, followed immediately by a low, unwelcome thrill. She glanced down the empty hallway, then quickly scooped up the box, unlocked her door, and slid inside, locking every bolt behind her.
She set the box on her kitchen table, the cheap laminate a stark contrast to its polished elegance. A single envelope rested on top. Her name was written on it in a handwriting that was all sharp angles and arrogant flourishes. She knew who it was from before she even slipped the card out.
Liana,
I trust Sera is not working you too mercilessly. The path of discipline is a worthy one, but even the most dedicated novice requires a reprieve. If you find yourself in need of a breather this evening, I would be pleased by your company. The Aerie. Ten o'clock.
—M.
The Aerie. She knew it. Everyone in Chicago knew it, even normies like she used to be. A members-only club on the 95th floor of the John Hancock Center. The place was legend, a swirl of rumors about billionaires, celebrities, and impossible waitlists. A small, involuntary gasp escaped her lips. He was there. Right now. Expecting her, maybe.
Her first, pragmatic thought was a defeatist groan. She had nothing to wear. Her closet was a shrine to practical softness: cotton, denim, fleece. Nothing for a place where the air itself probably cost a hundred dollars a breath.
Then she looked at the box.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Tissue paper whispered as she parted it. The fabric inside was a deep, arterial red, the color of old wine or a fresh wound. She lifted it out.
It was a dress. Simple, devastatingly so. Sleek, sleeveless, cut just above the knee. The material was heavy silk, cool and liquid in her hands. It felt alive. She held it against herself, turning toward the mirror on her closet door. The color made her skin look luminous, her light brown hair richer. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever touched.
A smaller card fluttered from the folds of tissue. She caught it.
“A gift to welcome you to this new world. Wear it in good health.”
She stood there for a long time, the dress held to her chest, staring at her own wide-eyed reflection. The storm inside her wasn’t calming. It was shifting, the fear and fatigue morphing into something else—a reckless, pulsing curiosity. Sera told her to rest. To build walls. Matthias was offering a view from the edge of the sky.
She looked at the clock. It was already nine.