The relationship between Hakime and Lyra had evolved into a series of brief but meaningful encounters, often at the library or outside the control classes. Their dialogue was made up of silences heard and technical remarks, a slow dance around their complementary powers.
One evening, as Hakime was training alone in an annex room to maintain a stable ray of light, the door opened. Lyra stood on the threshold, a shard of raw glass slowly spinning between her fingers.
"You're still forcing," she said simply as she entered.
Hakime lowered his hand, the ray fading away. "It's easier said than done."
"Show me."
He did it, concentrating his ether. A golden beam of light bursts out of his palm, powerful but trembling, like a heavy spear.
"Stop." Lyra approached. "You see it as a projectile. Look. "She raised her hand, and the shard of glass began to shine with a soft, constant internal light." I do not "speak" the clarity. I'm imprisoning him. I give it a shape, a structure. Your light is wild. It needs an intention, not an impulse."
She made the light disappear in the glass." Try not to project. Try to sculpt. As if you were giving shape to luminous clay."
Intrigued, Hakime closed his eyes. He stopped wanting to send light and focused on the idea of shaping it. He imagined a small cube with clean edges. The light answered him, not with a burst, but with a slow coalescence. When he opened his eyes again, a cube of pure light, about ten centimeters long, floated above his hand. It was much less brilliant than its radius, but infinitely more stable.
Lyra nodded, a glimmer of approval in her cold eyes. The form doesn't matter. It's the control that matters."
These sessions became almost routine. She taught him finesse, patience. In turn, the density and purity of his light helped him test the limits of his own glass. She created a small prism that he tried to fill with his energy. The result was a blinding glow, far more concentrated than he could produce on his own.
"Our powers are compatible," she once concluded, observing the lens that was slowly pulsing. "In combat, it could make a difference."
Beyond the strategy, tacit confidence was building. They talked little about their past, but their conversations revealed their motivations. One day, as they looked out the window at the energy dome, Lyra said in a low voice:
"My family lost their first child in the first major assault on the Tour de Paris. Lust. He was... overwhelmed." She wasn't looking at Hakime, her profile was tough. "I don't want anyone to go through this. My glass must become a bulwark. Impenetrable."
Hakime then realized that his coldness was not arrogance, but a shell. A will of iron forged in loss.
"I don't want anyone to feel as helpless as I was in the orphanage," he shared, which was rare for him. "Watching the Towers without being able to do anything."
These exchanges created a strange bond, deeper than the noisy friendship he shared with Arthur, more complex than the martial respect that bound him to Conor. It was a mutual recognition, an unspoken promise to cover each other when the ordeal came. They were not yet close allies, but more mere acquaintances. They were two pieces of the same strategic puzzle, slowly learning to fit together.