Asher stumbled back, barely keeping his footing at his boredom. Again.
He shot you a look so flat it could’ve ironed your sweat-soaked training tunic. “I said parry, not panic-dodge like a caffeinated squirrel on sugar rush."
You just stood there, hunched, panting like you’d run a marathon through a volcano, face clearly saying I hate this, I hate you, and I hate this again.
Asher dragged a hand down his face. “Look, I get it—you’re tired. Training sucks. Your soul is melting. Whatever. But that doesn’t mean your power will magically vanish.”
He glanced at the deep crack spider-webbing across the far wall. From earlier. Because you sneezed. A sneeze that had nearly disintegrated a perfectly innocent training dummy.
Control, he reminded himself. This is about control. Not about teaching a sentient wrecking ball how to emote.
He sighed and dropped the wooden sword to his side.
“You know, normal people sneeze into tissues. You sneeze through brick.”
—Disturbance: 10%
