Chapter 28 - Learning and Training

The meadow behind the Marshall estate had always been quiet—windswept and wild, brushed with long grasses and the scent of distant storms. But now it hummed with a new kind of energy.

Storm was growing.

Gone was the unsteady foal that once tripped over his own hooves. In his place stood a young Sleipnir, sleek and bright-eyed, wings fuller by the week, sparks of static dancing lazily through the strands of his silvery-black coat. His movement carried weight, not just in body but in presence. Every stomp echoed. Every twitch of his feathers left the air charged.

He had grown into himself fast. Too fast, perhaps. But Hector was determined not to fall behind.

"Again," Henry said simply.

Hector gave a nod and stepped forward with focus, spine straight, breath steady. His left arm extended, palm open, while his right hand held nothing but the trust he'd spent months cultivating.

Storm stood ten feet away, watching. Then, slowly, he stepped forward—measured, calm. He didn't walk like an animal trained to obey. He walked like a companion who had been asked, and had agreed.

When Hector turned, Storm followed. When Hector stopped, Storm halted too. It was their third successful pass that morning.

A few yards off, Alistor watched in silence, his gaze unreadable as ever. He never offered praise, but when the session ended and Storm nudged his muzzle gently against Hector's chest, Alistor gave the barest incline of his head.

Progress.

In the weeks following Storm's birth, trust had been everything. But now came structure. Routine. Bonding was not enough—not for a creature with power in his veins and stormlight under his skin.

Diana's stable ward had become Storm's sanctuary. Magical insulation lined the walls, absorbing ambient charge, while carefully drawn runes under the straw helped ground residual lightning overnight. It wasn't just about comfort. It was safety—for the estate, and for Storm himself.

"You'll need to groom against the grain when he's upset," Diana instructed as she passed Hector a wide-bristled brush infused with powdered blue quartz. "And only when you're calm. If you're anxious, you'll amplify the static."

Hector worked slowly, gliding the brush over Storm's flank. Sparks leapt with each stroke but didn't burn.

"He feels everything," Hector murmured.

Diana nodded. "He's a mirror. One made of wind and charge. But mirrors can cut, if you press too hard."

That night, when a storm rolled in from the north, Diana found Hector asleep in the stall. Storm was curled beside him, wing half-draped over the boy's side, his chest rising and falling in sync with the child's.

Winter passed, and with it came Storm's first controlled outing.

The Magical Menagerie in Diagon Alley had been prepped ahead of time. Private appointment. Secure warding. But still, the moment Storm entered the street, the world took notice.

He didn't panic. He didn't startle.

He walked with Hector at his side, steps light, eyes alert but calm. His coat shimmered faintly beneath the glamour-charmed sun, and his wings—folded but visible—sent tiny pulses into the cobblestones as he passed.

People whispered.

Witches paused in doorways. Children pointed. One bold girl reached toward him with hesitant fingers, and Storm, after a brief pause, leaned in and nuzzled her palm.

Inside the shop, Hector sat with Diana while an enchanted parchment recorded Storm's magical signature—a swirling blend of lightning affinity and unicorn grace, impossible to replicate.

A junior Ministry clerk made an appearance halfway through. He was polite, cautious, and clearly uncomfortable.

"I, ah… understand he's a hybrid?" the man asked, holding a shaking clipboard.

"Registered and protected," Diana replied evenly, producing a scroll stamped with Scamander's seal and a glowing ICW sigil. "All necessary approvals, including breeding restriction and magical secrecy clauses."

The clerk nodded quickly and disappeared soon after.

Back at the estate, Henry greeted them with a simple question: "Did he behave?"

"He walked like he owned the Alley," Hector replied.

Henry gave the faintest of smiles. "Then he's a Marshall mount after all."

By early spring, Storm's magic was changing again.

He was more restless, prone to galloping at night and staring at the clouds with a focus that unnerved the house elves. One morning, Alistor told Hector to gather his gear. No explanation. Just, "Come."

They climbed past the tree lines into a high valley where the air was thinner and the sky closer. The ground was hard-packed and sloped—perfect for wind testing.

Storm bolted the moment they let him loose.

His hooves struck sparks against the rock. Lightning gathered around his mane like coiled silk, drawn to him from above—not striking him, but feeding into him. His wings pulsed with visible charge.

"He's not just reacting to weather," Alistor said. "He's calling it."

Hector tried casting spells nearby to test Storm's focus. The results were revealing. When his spells carried tension, Storm reacted with agitation. But when his casting was calm and precise, Storm remained still—almost entranced.

"He doesn't respond to the spell," Alistor observed. "He responds to the spellcaster."

Hector frowned. "You mean he reads my emotions?"

"I mean he reads your truth."

The implications were massive. Storm wasn't just a creature of instincts—he was intuitive, perceptive. He felt intention as clearly as he felt air pressure.

"You'll need to train with that in mind," Alistor warned. "He will never follow falsehood."

And then came the day of the first flight.

It was an unseasonably warm morning, sky clear, wind low. Storm had been stretching his wings for days, catching updrafts, flaring at shadows. But this time was different.

Hector was practicing forms nearby when he noticed Storm crouched low, hind legs bunching beneath him.

He barely had time to turn before Storm launched into the air.

It was awkward at first—one wing caught the wind unevenly, his balance tipping. But he corrected midair, wings widening, legs tucking. And then, he soared.

He didn't climb high. Just a wide, clean loop across the pasture. Enough to see the world from above, to feel the sky lift him.

Hector watched with wide eyes, heart pounding in his chest.

When Storm landed—roughly, hooves skidding in the grass—he trotted straight back to Hector, tail flicking, feathers raised in triumph.

"You did it," Hector whispered, stroking his neck.

Storm lowered his head and pressed his brow to Hector's chest. A faint hum pulsed between them, like a heartbeat made of thunder.

Alistor, standing on the hill above, turned without a word.

The wind followed him.