Yuria had gone silent.
Not moody. Not stormy. Just... quiet. Which, for her, was worse than a lightning tantrum.
I located her alone within the training yard, sitting go-legged, eyes closed, fists clenched. No crackles. No glow.
"What’s incorrect?" I asked.
"I can’t feel it," she said.
"The lightning?"
She nodded. "It’s like a door close in my chest."
We sat together for a while. I didn’t say a great deal. I just watched her breathe.
"I’ve usually had it," she stated ultimately. "Since I was a kid. Even earlier than I could stroll. The sparks—they have been a part of me."
"And now they’re no longer?"
"Now it’s simply quiet."
I took her hand, heat and dry. "You’re nevertheless you, although the sparks aren’t there."
She checked out me. "But what if I’m nothing with out them?"
"You’re Yuria," I said. "Stubborn, wild, brave. The sparks were in no way what made you dangerous."
She stared, then smirked faintly. "You’re getting sappy, Architect."
"Must be contagious."
Her laughter become gentle, unsure—however it turned into a start.
The lightning might’ve slept—however Yuria didn’t. And neither would I.