The Blue Master

Torez chose the largest of them.

Of course he did.

The girl filled my doorway like a misplaced pillar—broad-shouldered, soot still clinging to the cuffs of her sleeves. She stood stiffly, as if my hall might collapse if she relaxed.

Behind her, Torez folded his arms and attempted to look disinterested.

“This is Branna,” he said. “She listens well.”

High praise, from him.

I inclined my head and gestured her inside. My apprentices had already cleared the central floor, chalking a simple circle in white ash. No braziers burned. No smoke. Only quiet air and patient light.

Branna’s eyes flicked to the shelves—scrolls, prisms, suspended rings of etched copper. She frowned slightly, as though disappointed by the lack of anvils.

“Master Torez tells me,” I began, “that you strike clean.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Good. Today you will not strike at all.”

Her discomfort was immediate. I could almost see her searching for weight to lift, something solid to move.

I placed a small shard of crystal at the center of the circle. It was dull and unremarkable, the size of a coin.

“Move it,” I said.

She bent her knees instinctively, as if preparing to lunge.

“With your will,” I clarified.

Behind her, Torez made a low sound in his throat—skepticism, poorly disguised.

Branna stared at the shard. Her jaw tightened. The air stirred faintly, the barest tremor of unfocused force. The crystal did not move.

She pushed harder. I could feel it now—raw effort, like a hammer swung wildly in the dark.

The chalk line smudged outward.

“Stop,” I said gently.

She froze, breath ragged.

“Tell me,” I asked, “when you face steel that resists you, what do you do?”

“Strike again,” she answered without hesitation.

“And if it resists again?”

“Strike better.”

Torez grunted approval.

I nodded. “Then do the same here. But understand what you are striking.”

I stepped closer to the circle. “You believe you are pushing the crystal. You are not. You are pushing the space around it. The air. The unseen tension that holds it in place.”

Branna frowned.

“Close your eyes,” I said.

She hesitated, then obeyed.

“Do not try to move it. Instead, feel the shape of the room. The floor beneath you. The way your breath displaces the air.”

Silence settled.

Her shoulders, always squared in readiness, began to lower. The invisible pressure she had been exerting smoothed into something finer—less shove, more alignment.

The crystal trembled.

Torez shifted his weight.

Branna’s brow furrowed, but she did not tense. She exhaled slowly.

The shard slid—no more than the width of a finger.

Her eyes snapped open.

It stopped immediately.

I smiled.

“There,” I said softly. “Did you feel the difference?”

She nodded, wonder overtaking effort. “It wasn’t… force.”

“No,” I agreed. “It was agreement.”

Behind her, Torez stepped fully into the hall for the first time. His gaze lingered on the crystal, then on his student.

“She did not push,” he said.

“She struck better,” I replied.

For a long moment, we stood in the quiet between forge and hall, between impact and intention.

Branna looked from me to him, uncertain whose approval mattered more.

“Both,” Torez and I said at once.

He gave me a sideways glance. I allowed myself a small, infuriating smile.

Steel resists. Air yields. Both demand respect.

As they left, Torez paused at the threshold.

“She listens well,” he said again.

I turned the crystal in my palm, feeling the faint warmth Branna’s will had left behind.

So she does.