The town felt different after the training, as though the streets themselves had grown more attentive to Ilyra's presence. She noticed it in the way shopkeepers glanced up a moment too long when she passed, in the way conversations softened as she drew near. It was not suspicion, not yet, but awareness. Magic left traces, no matter how carefully it was contained, and the borrowed body carried those traces differently than her own ever had. She walked with measured steps her posture relaxed her expression composed yet her senses remained sharp cataloging every sound and movement around her.
Caelen walked beside her, silent as they moved through the narrow street leading toward the market square. The space between them felt deliberate, neither distant nor intimate, a careful balance he seemed to maintain with intention. His presence was steady, grounding, and yet it carried an undercurrent of scrutiny that never faded. Ilyra had learned already that silence with him was never empty. It was a test, one that measured restraint as much as skill. The market was alive with color and motion. Stalls overflowed with produce, fabric, and small charms said to ward off misfortune. The air carried the scent of spices and freshly baked bread, mingling with the warmth of bodies moving close together. Ilyra slowed her pace instinctively, allowing the borrowed body's familiarity with the space to guide her. Seris had walked these paths countless times, had known which vendors smiled kindly and which watched with sharp eyes. Ilyra leaned into those memories carefully, letting them surface without drawing too deeply.
Today is not about training Caelen said quietly as they stepped aside near a stone well at the edge of the square. It is about restraint. You will observe. You will listen. And if you must act, you will do so without being noticed.
Ilyra inclined her head, understanding immediately. Public magic was never simple. Even the smallest display could ripple outward, drawing attention from those who knew how to read such signs. She folded her hands loosely before her and let her gaze drift across the square, appearing idle while her awareness stretched outward. She could feel the faint hum of magic here, subtle and scattered, woven into charms, talismans, and the quiet protections placed by cautious hands.
A sudden shift in the air caught her attention. It was small but unmistakable, a tight knot of energy pulling inward rather than flowing naturally. Her gaze settled on a young boy near a stall of dried herbs. He stood rigid, his hands clenched at his sides, his breath shallow. The magic around him twisted uncomfortably, unstable and strained, as though something inside him was struggling to contain itself. Before she could speak, the air cracked softly, and a ripple of energy flared around the boy. A few nearby baskets toppled, spilling fruit onto the ground. Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by hurried murmurs. The boy's eyes widened in fear, and the magic surged again, wild and uncontrolled.
Ilyra's pulse quickened. This was not a deliberate act. It was raw, untrained power breaking free. She felt Caelen's attention sharpen beside her, though he did not move. The decision was hers.
She stepped forward calmly, her movements unhurried. Kneeling beside the fallen baskets, she began gathering the scattered fruit, her hands steady. As she did, she focused inward, letting her awareness brush gently against the chaotic magic radiating from the boy. She did not force it, did not confront it directly. Instead, she guided it, softening its edges, encouraging it to settle, to flow outward rather than erupt.
The borrowed body responded beautifully. The subtle gestures of her hands, the steady rhythm of her breathing, and the quiet focus of her mind worked together. The magic eased, loosening its grip, until the air grew still once more. The boy sagged with relief, confusion giving way to quiet exhaustion.
Thank you, the vendor murmured, unaware of what had truly occurred. Poor thing must have startled himself. Ilyra smiled gently and rose, handing the last piece of fruit back. She met the boy's gaze briefly, offering reassurance without words. He nodded, his shoulders relaxing, the dangerous tension gone.
As she turned away, she felt Caelen's gaze settle fully on her. When they stepped back into the quieter street, he finally spoke. You chose subtlety, he said. That was wise. It was necessary, Ilyra replied. Fear would have worsened it. Caelen studied her for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Most would have acted more forcefully, or not at all. You read the situation quickly. She met his gaze evenly. The body remembers things the mind does not. I listened to it. A faint pause followed, heavy with unspoken meaning. Caelen nodded once, as though accepting an answer that raised more questions than it resolved. They continued walking, the market noise fading behind them. Ilyra felt the weight of the moment settle into her bones. She had acted publicly, however subtly. She had bent magic without revealing its source. And she knew, with quiet certainty, that someone had noticed, even if they had not yet understood what they had seen.
As the town returned to its steady rhythm, Ilyra understood that survival was no longer about avoiding attention. It was about choosing how to shape it. The body she had borrowed was no longer merely a shelter. It was becoming a bridge between who she had been and who she was becoming. And somewhere within that fragile balance, danger was already beginning to stir.