I know what he means because I’ve felt the blackness at the edges of my worst days. That encroaching endless dark pit of mediocrity. Coming to Genesis has begun to mend that hole.

I can’t help but think about the provincial stereotype of the tortured artist, the disproportionate number of creative souls who fall to substance abuse, mental illness, and suicide. How many of them have been untrained and unfulfilled Sires? Would I have veered down that path if I hadn’t come to Genesis?

“Try again,” Rafe commands.

I take a deep breath and confront all the conflicting instructions jumbled up in my head—Master Liu’s well, Hilde’s source—the contrasting guidance yelling over each other, completely paralyzing my flow of Ha’i.

“You’re the master of your Ha’i. Demand that it do your will,” Rafe says.

Great, another contradictory method. But I’ll try it.

In my mind I adjust my thoughts to match Rafe’s demanding tone, and I try to bully the Ha’i up from my core through to my fingers. It’s completely ineffective. I feel nothing.

So much nothing that it gives me an idea.

What is the opposite of a demand? A request? That’s more my style.

And so I ask.

I close my eyes and envision a glowing source of Ha’i at the base of my belly, and instead of pulling from it by force, I ask politely, Will you help me?

And it does.

My hand warms. I ask again, this time for a glow. A controlled ball of lights shines from my fingers. In my mind, I silently thank… myself. Then I cast my attention to the wall sconce, make another internal request, and I am elated to see the light flicker.

I try again to make glowing light flicker to life on and off in my hands. It happens seamlessly and instantly.

“You’ve had a breakthrough,” Rafe states.

“I think I have.”

Spending years holding back my Ha’i didn’t ruin it; it made it shy. I’ve been hitting a rock that needed talking to.

Giddiness rushes through me. I want to jump up. I want to hug Rafe. But I stay where I am and content myself with only a wide grin.

“Good,” Rafe says. “Let’s harmonize so I can feel it.” He steps closer, makes shiin with his left hand, and lines it up next to mine. A harmony is the practice of two Sires connecting their shiin at the pointer and thumb into a triangle to combine the power of their Ha’i. The energy between mine and Rafe’s hands is charged with… something.

“I can feel you conducting. Now see if you can control the direction of the energy.” His hand—so much larger than my own—emits sparks. They curl around my wrist and form a bracelet—or a shackle. The sparks fizzle out as they hit my skin.