Foster watched Orëlas for another long moment, standing with arms folded, while the child - if he could still be called such - repeated the fire exercise with astonishing mastery. The flame was born, danced in his palm, extinguished, reborn. Always fluid, never forced.
He could have stood there for hours, contemplating it, making sure the fire didn't get out of hand. But Foster knew he shouldn't smother it either. He had to give it space. Trust.
He stepped forward gently.
- Keep practicing. Listen to your core, stay calm, don't try to force anything. You're making good progress. More than good.
Orëlas, concentrating, nodded without even looking away from the flame he was manipulating. Foster smiled faintly. Then, turning away, he left the clearing at a slow pace, crossing the wooden paths suspended between the branches of Vollua.
He was heading for the Mother Tree.