When Lightning Sleeps

Yuria had gone silent.

Not moody. Not stormy. Just… quiet. Which, for her, was worse than a lightning tantrum.

I located her alone within the training yard, sitting go-legged, eyes closed, fists clenched. No crackles. No glow.

"What's incorrect?" I asked.

"I can't feel it," she said.

"The lightning?"

She nodded. "It's like a door close in my chest."

We sat together for a while. I didn't say a great deal. I just watched her breathe.

"I've usually had it," she stated ultimately. "Since I was a kid. Even earlier than I could stroll. The sparks—they have been a part of me."

"And now they're no longer?"

"Now it's simply quiet."

I took her hand, heat and dry. "You're nevertheless you, although the sparks aren't there."

She checked out me. "But what if I'm nothing with out them?"

"You're Yuria," I said. "Stubborn, wild, brave. The sparks were in no way what made you dangerous."