“You have too much control.”

She huffs. “Too much control? Please, enlighten me how expertise and control can somehow hinder my abilities.”

“You can make the forms slowly because that allows you to concentrate on keeping the light contained. But to shift between forms, you have to let go a little. There’s inevitably a moment between forms where the light exists outside of your control. The mastery comes in letting it go for that fraction of a second, then pulling it back to you.” She looks distressed but only nods slowly. “Take another moment to visualize yourself doing the motions. Believe you can let go and still be able to pull the light back.”

She closes her eyes and tries again, and this time she makes the shield, but falters when trying to make the dagger. She lets out a frustrated grunt and opens her eyes.

“That was good. Excellent really,” I encourage. “It took me years to move between forms, and it’s only taken you half an hour. It’s amazing progress. Keep trying.”

She practices for another hour. I give her encouragement along the way, gently nudging her to let go of the tight hold she keeps on her magic. By the end of the hour, she’s able to whip through the forms quickly.

“Okay, let’s try slicing through something. Er… sorry about the planters,” I say, realizing there’s not much more in the room for her to practice on. In an instant, the planters have been restored, as if they were never broken in the first place. I look up at Laurel, and she just shrugs.

“The benefit of control,” she coos with a smirk, and my blood heats at the subtle challenge she offers me with her gaze. But then she shudders, and her expression turns worried. “Uh, don’t tell anyone about that. Please.” She must realize she’s displayed yet another ability not connected to a conduit, but I don’t press her on it. Internally, my mind is whirring. What is her power? What conduit could possibly produce that result?

“Your secret’s safe with me, witchling,” is all I say though, motioning for her to continue with training.

She takes a deep breath, then raises a sword of light above her head. In an impressive swipe downward, she slams it against the planters, but nothing happens, the light dissipating as it reaches them. She looks at me with confusion and frustration.

“I told you, you have to believe the light will slice into it. Do whatever meditative shit you need to do to believe that.”

“Meditative shit?” she asks, eyebrow quirked.