By the time the small stream of water had twisted and curled into a perfect circle above her outstretched palm, Althea was drenched in sweat, each bead tracing a slow path down her temples.
The sheer delicacy of control she demanded from her own body and mind was exhausting, every tiny movement of the water requiring focus sharper than a razor's edge.
Around her, everyone was silent, save for the faint whisper of the circulating water. At her age, no one else could even hope to coax the liquid into such precise form even in the entire class; she alone carried this rare mastery.
Even Isolde, sitting a short distance away, couldn't mask the flicker of astonishment in her eyes.
Shift of water into vague shapes to a certain degree, swirl it into harmless patterns, or bend it slightly to their will was something acceptable, but nothing approached this level—this delicate, deliberate choreography of liquid responding as if it had a mind of its own.
