CHAPTER 11
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The mornings had become routine. Cold air, damp earth, and the quiet rustle of the forest as it woke with the rising sun. But something had shifted within me—though I hadn’t fully acknowledged it yet. I wasn’t pushing against the world around me like before. I wasn’t forcing the Flow to bend to my will. Instead, I was starting to understand how the Flow, the elements, and even my own desires could work together.
But it wasn’t just the magic. Something else was gnawing at the back of my mind.
It was the hermit. Or rather, everything he had been saying to me. At first, I found his calm, almost detached demeanor irritating. He never raised his voice, never seemed in a hurry, and it grated on me. I had been rude to him since the day we met—impatient, demanding, always pushing for more. But no matter how I spoke to him, he never reacted the way I expected. He never snapped back, never scolded me. He just stayed… calm.
It had been infuriating at the time. I thought his patience was weakness. But now, the more I thought about it, the more I began to question if that was true.
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Today, we stood in the clearing once again, the sun just beginning to break through the thick canopy above. My body moved with purpose as I focused on controlling the water before me. But unlike before, I didn’t force it. I let it respond, adapting to its natural rhythm, bending it to my will slowly, carefully.
The water twisted into a spiral, hovering just above the stream, its surface calm, despite the tension in the air.
“Better,” the hermit said quietly from behind me. “You’re learning to listen.”
I didn’t respond immediately. There was still a small part of me that wanted to dismiss his approval, to push for more power. But I was learning to quiet that voice. Just a little.
“How long did it take you?” I asked finally, my eyes still fixed on the water. “To understand all of this? Control, I mean.”
The hermit was silent for a moment, and I could feel his gaze settle on me. “Longer than it should have,” he admitted. “I made mistakes. Thought I could force my way through. But I learned that true strength comes from restraint, from knowing when to act and when to wait.”
I nodded, the words sinking in. Patience had never been my strong suit, but I was starting to see the wisdom in it. I lowered my hand, and the water fell gently back into the stream, the magic dissipating without a trace. It felt different, letting it go so easily. Almost natural.
“You’re adapting,” the hermit said, a rare note of approval in his voice. “That’s good. You’ll need that.”
I turned to face him, my expression steady, but inside, my thoughts were spiraling. He was right. I was adapting. But the truth was, something about this change bothered me.
I couldn’t shake the feeling of annoyance when I recalled all the times I had snapped at the hermit. Every time I had demanded more from him, pushed back against his lessons, or lost my patience, he had simply met me with the same calm demeanor. He never raised his voice, never seemed offended by my tone. And now that I was thinking about it, I found myself more frustrated by his composure than I had been by the lessons.
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That evening, as we sat by the fire, the memories of our interactions swirled through my mind. I was starting to see the patterns—how I had spoken to him in anger, how I had disrespected him. But he had never reacted, never matched my rudeness with anger.
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It irritated me.
I stared into the flames, my thoughts churning. “You never get angry,” I said suddenly, breaking the silence between us.
The hermit glanced at me, his expression unchanged. “Why would I?”
“Because…” I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. “Because I’ve been difficult. Rude, even. I’ve questioned everything you’ve taught me, pushed back at every lesson. But you’ve never once gotten angry. Why?”
The hermit studied me for a long moment, his gaze soft but thoughtful. “Anger clouds the mind. It makes you lose control. You learn nothing from it.”
I frowned, my frustration bubbling up again. I opened my mouth to argue, to demand a better answer, but something in me held back. The words lingered on my tongue, and for once, I swallowed them.
“But why let me talk to you like that?” I asked, forcing myself to keep my voice steady. “Don’t you care?”
The hermit smiled slightly, but it wasn’t a mocking smile. It was… understanding. “I care about your progress, Niv. Not your tone. I know why you’re angry, why you push back. You want power, and you think I’m holding you back. But I’m not.”
His words hit me harder than I expected. I opened my mouth to argue but stopped. He was right. That had been my mindset all along—I had thought he was holding me back. And in my frustration, I hadn’t even realized how I had been speaking to him.
I took a deep breath, the weight of the realization settling over me. I had been wrong. Not about wanting power, but about how I was going about it. The hermit had been patient with me, teaching me despite my attitude, despite my constant demands. He had never raised his voice, never lost his temper. He had been guiding me, and I hadn’t even noticed.
For the first time, I felt a pang of guilt.
“I—” I hesitated, unsure of how to say it. Apologies weren’t something that came naturally to me. “I’ve been… difficult,” I said finally, my voice quieter than usual. “I didn’t realize it until now.”
The hermit’s expression softened, and he gave a slight nod. “You’re learning. That’s all that matters.”
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In the days that followed, I found myself adjusting. Slowly. Every time I spoke to the hermit, I was more aware of my tone, more conscious of how I approached him. It wasn’t a sudden change, and there were still moments where my frustration slipped through. But I was starting to understand the value of patience, of calm.
It wasn’t just about power. It was about how I used that power, and how I approached those who were helping me gain it.
One morning, as we stood by the stream, I noticed something else. Every time I questioned the hermit, every time I spoke out of turn, he didn’t just let it slide—he used it as a lesson. Every time he answered me calmly, he was showing me what control looked like.
It had been there all along. I just hadn’t seen it.
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That afternoon, the hermit called me over to the edge of the clearing. He handed me something—a simple piece of cloth. A mask.
I looked at it, the weight of its meaning sinking in. It wasn’t just about hiding my face. It was about discipline, about controlling how the world saw me. The hermit had been teaching me this from the beginning. Control wasn’t just about magic. It was about myself.
“You’ve learned a lot,” the hermit said, his voice steady. “But there’s more to learn. Wearing the mask will help. It will keep you from revealing too much. It’s not just to hide from your enemies, but to remind you to stay hidden. Even from yourself.”
I stared at the mask in my hand, feeling the rough fabric between my fingers. I understood now. He wasn’t just talking about the mask as a tool to hide my identity. It was a reminder—of control, of patience, of not letting my power define me before I was ready.
I slipped the mask over my face, feeling its weight settle against my skin. It felt strange at first, but in a way, it felt right. Like it was a part of me I hadn’t realized I needed.
“I’ll wear it,” I said quietly. “And I’ll keep learning.”
The hermit gave a small nod of approval. “That’s all I ask.”
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Over the next few weeks, the shift in my tone, my attitude, became more noticeable. It wasn’t forced, but a natural adaptation to everything I had been learning. I still pushed myself, still sought power, but I wasn’t rushing anymore. I wasn’t snapping at the hermit with every question or demand.
I was listening. I was learning.
And slowly, I was becoming something more.