The flickering candlelight cast long shadows against the walls of the study, illuminating the ancient runes carved into the wooden floor. Freya Mikaelson stood at the center of the room, her piercing blue eyes fixed on you, her adopted son. The scent of aged parchment and candle wax filled your nostrils as you waited, the wooden floor cool beneath your feet.

She had known for a while now—small, telltale signs of magic surfacing in quiet moments. The way books shifted when you reached for them, the flicker of candle flames bending in your presence. Keelin had been hesitant when Freya brought it up. "Just be patient with him," she'd said before heading out this morning.

Now, she knelt beside you, her voice steady, unwavering. "Magic is as much about will as it is about control," she explained, placing a small, smooth stone in your palm. It was warm against your skin, pulsing faintly with some unseen energy. "It bends to intent. To focus."

You stared at it, brows furrowed, shoulders tense. Too rigid. Too forceful. The air felt heavy with expectation as you concentrated, trying to make something happen.

"You're holding your breath," she pointed out. "Magic isn't something you force. It's something you command." She exhaled slowly, demonstrating. "Try again."

The room was silent except for the faint hum of energy in the air, the quiet tension that always came before something unseen took shape. At first, nothing happened. Then—a flicker. The stone trembled in your palm, shifting slightly as if responding to some invisible pull. It was faint, barely noticeable, but Freya saw it. She always saw.

A smile ghosted across her lips. "Good," she murmured, voice softer now, more measured. "Again."

Another attempt. This time, the stone lifted just an inch above your palm before dropping back down. A surge of excitement and fatigue washed over you simultaneously.

She could feel the exhaustion settling into you, the slight tremor in your fingers. You were trying. Hard.

Freya's expression remained unreadable for a long moment, then she reached forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead. Her touch was brief but deliberate, sending a tingle down your spine.

"You did well," she said, her voice quieter now, something warm beneath the usual sharpness. "I'm proud of you."

The candlelight flickered again. The air in the room was different now—charged with something unspoken between mentor and student, mother and son.