Page 101 of Cerulean Truth
Closing her eyes, a light green haze enveloped Morgan’s features. “You’re doing great, Morgan. Now, focus even harder.”
The light green haze gradually transformed into a darker shade, and as she exclaimed in that high pitched voice of hers, “I want tomove,” as small swirling circle materialized in front of her. My jaw dropped to the floor.
“Morgan, open your eyes and look at what you’ve created, ” James commanded proudly.
Morgan cautiously opened one eye and let out a shriek at the sight of her first portal. The class erupted in cheers, and applause filled the air. Soon, everyone was eager to try creating portals themselves.
While the enthusiasm swept through the room, I couldn’t shake off the hesitation. The thought of potential failure loomed large, and the idea of failing in front of a group of seven-year-olds was not appealing. There were certainly more enjoyable ways to spend a Friday morning, such as cleaning a public restroom or even enduring fire ants crawling down my pants.
Fortunately, not everyone found success as effortlessly as Morgan. Most produced some form of haze, but only a handful of my classmates managed to progress from haze to the beginnings of a portal.
“Emma, it’s your turn,” Malec, a small kid with a funny face, called out to me. I wanted to smile warmly, but my expression might have conveyed murderous intend instead. His eyes widened in shock—poor little guy.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Emotions had always just been there. I’d never given much thought to the how or the why. I simply existed with them, allowing their currents to carry me along. But now, ever since I’d started training with James, they eluded me completely.
Cursing myself and my emotional limitations, I attempted to home in on whatever I was feeling, but all I could discern was an undying abyss of nothingness. How was I to surrender to an emotion when every fiber of my being yearned for apathy? When the mere thought of feeling anything sent those horrid shivers down my spine?
I really tried to let it all back in, but it felt like pushing against an impenetrable barrier. Despite my best efforts to concentrate, I remained trapped in that empty pit, numbness enveloping me, no matter how desperately I sought escape.
After trying, and failing, to summon any emotion, finding myself unable to translate a simple haze, I stood frozen amidst the room's scrutiny. James, of course, stood nearby with a furrowed brow, intensifying the discomfort and I had to fight the urge to flee.
The class ended rather prematurely, with the promise to resume the same lessons the following week. I could hardly contain my anticipation.
As we neared the exit, James signaled for me to stay behind. Having yet another discussion about my lackluster performancewas rather low on my hopes-and-wishes list. So, I fabricated an excuse and hastily fled the scene as soon as the first student exited.
Sprinting back to my dorm, I shut the door behind me with a heavy sigh.
The relief of being alone, however, was short-lived as a knock promptly shattered my hopes for a peaceful night.
TWENTY-SIX
JAMES
"Emma, open up," I urged.
When she finally opened the door, her demeanor was less than welcoming.
"Can I come in?" I asked, keeping my tone soft.
She shrugged, opening the door wider, inviting me in. Stepping into her dorm, I scanned the room, instantly noting the absence of personalized items. A few books on Cyclos and translation lay scattered on the floor, and her clothes were still partly packed in a suitcase.
I frowned; this didn't seem like the room of someone happy and excited to live there. I shoved that observation to the back of my mind, saving it for later.
"I get it, you're pissed about my class," I began, turning toward her. "And I'm sorry for barging in, but it’s time we talked about your, uhm...emotional hiccup."
She shot me a glare, clearly not impressed with my choice of words.
"I don't mean any disrespect, but to be honest, I recognized your−" I started, but she cut me off with a sharp warning.
"Don't you dare say 'hiccup'," she snapped, and I couldn't help but fight a smile. Her attempts at intimidation were kind of cute.
"It’s just…” I continued more cautiously, “when you create a haze but don’t get the desired result, it’s about technique, about translation. If it takes you too long, it’s about interface, which is where most magi struggle. But when you don’t create the haze itself, it’s about the underlying emotion, or the lack thereof."
She rolled her eyes, clearly dismissing my explanation, and I couldn't help but agree; it did sound like a quote from a "self-help" book on therapy.
“I’m not in the mood to discuss this James, can’t this wait?” she asked sullenly.
