The single, grey plum blossom hung in the air before me. It was the color of a storm cloud, and it did not float. It simply was, as if distance were a suggestion it was politely ignoring. It held for three perfect, silent seconds, and then vanished. It was the first word I had spoken in a new and profoundly difficult language.
"Again," Alice said from the edge of the balcony, her voice a calm, implacable command.
For the next hour, that was my only drill. I stood in the center of the balcony, the city of Avalon waking below me, and practiced making a single flower. It was a humbling, infuriating exercise. My instincts, honed by years of high-stakes combat, screamed at me to do more, to be faster, to be more powerful. But every time I let my power surge, the result was a heavy, jagged crystal of useless Grey that clattered to the floor. Every time I tried to force the shape, the delicate balance of Purelight and Deepdark would collapse.
