Marlos

Midnight Practice

The soft glow of enchanted lamps cast long shadows across the opulent dorm room Carlos shared with Mal. While the rest of Auradon Prep slept, a quiet energy permeated the space. Carlos, unable to find true rest, was engaged in a solitary training session, the residual darkness of his lineage a restless companion.

Mal was a deep sleeper, a trait Carlos had come to appreciate. He moved with deliberate quietness, his bare feet soundless on the plush carpet. He had pushed the ornate rug to the side, creating a small, clear space in the center of the room. The air hummed faintly as he focused, the familiar pull of the Shadow Weaver energy stirring within him.

He extended his hands, the faint, dark aura shimmering around his fingertips more readily now than it had during the day. The connection felt... easier, somehow, in the stillness of the night, away from the bright energy of Auradon. It was as if the shadows themselves acknowledged him, a descendant of their ancient weavers.

Tonight, he wasn't focusing on grand displays of power or complex spells. Instead, he was practicing control, the minute adjustments, the subtle shifts in his focus that allowed him to shape the raw energy with precision. He visualized the darkness not as a destructive force, but as a malleable substance, like clay waiting to be molded.

He coaxed the shadows into delicate tendrils, watching as they writhed and danced in the air before dissipating with a flick of his wrist. He tried to solidify them, to give them form, but the energy remained elusive, resisting his attempts at true manifestation.

Frustration flickered within him. It was like trying to grasp smoke – there, yet intangible. He took a deep breath, remembering Evie's words: "Feel it, Carlos. Don't force it."

He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of the energy within him, the subtle thrumming beneath his skin. He imagined it flowing through him, a part of him, not an external force to be wrestled into submission.

Slowly, tentatively, he tried again. He extended his hands, picturing the tendrils, but this time, he focused on their texture, their density. He imagined them solidifying, taking shape.

And it worked. The dark energy coalesced, forming thin, obsidian-like strands that held their shape for a fleeting moment before dissolving. It was a small victory, but a significant one. He had, for the first time, truly shaped the darkness.

A soft stirring from the bed made him pause. Mal shifted in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Carlos held his breath, his concentration broken. He watched her for a moment, the moonlight catching the gentle curve of her cheek. The sight of her peaceful slumber was a stark reminder of what he was fighting for, what he refused to let the shadows endanger.

He resumed his practice, his movements even quieter now, his focus sharpened by the image of Mal. He continued to mold the darkness, the fleeting forms becoming slightly more stable, his control a fraction more precise.