Riven woke up with a jolt, his body drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. His room was quiet, the only sound his erratic breathing. His mind was clouded, disoriented as though he had just come out of a dream. A storm of thoughts raged within him, but this time, something was different. The storm wasn't overwhelming him—it was... calm.
He sat up in his bed, rubbing his face with both hands. The familiar gnawing frustration, the rage that often bubbled inside him, wasn't there. Instead, there was a sense of clarity, an unusual peace that settled over him.
Had it been real? That last fight?
His eyes flickered to the corner of his room, and the memory hit him like a wave. The training, the reflection, the struggle with himself.
But this time, when he thought about it, he didn't feel like the fight was out of control. It wasn't a chaotic clash of raw emotions anymore—it had been... calculated. Controlled.
He exhaled slowly, trying to focus. He remembered how, in the heat of that moment, he'd let go of the anger, the desperation to prove himself. He'd learned to control the storm inside him instead of letting it control him.
"Did I really do it?" Riven muttered to himself, almost in disbelief.
His mind replayed the battle—every movement, every strike, every pause. He hadn't fought like he used to, just recklessly throwing punches or getting lost in a fit of rage. No, he had been calm. Focused. Calculated.
That storm inside him—once wild and untamed—was now something he could channel.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. His heart still raced, but it was no longer in panic. It was... anticipation. The kind that came from a deep understanding.
"Alright, let's test it," he said aloud, more to himself than anyone else.
He closed his eyes, and instantly the storm began to stir within him. But this time, he welcomed it, feeling the surge of energy without fear. The wind howled in his chest, but instead of feeling like it was about to swallow him whole, Riven felt the storm, felt it, like an old friend.
His hand extended out in front of him, fingers spread wide. A small gust of wind whipped around his palm, swirling in a controlled vortex. It wasn't just a burst of power, uncontrolled and unrefined—it was a deliberate force, something he could mold with ease.
Riven's breath hitched in excitement. "I did it..."
He chuckled softly to himself, finally understanding what his master had meant when he talked about controlling the storm. It wasn't about suppressing the power inside him; it was about making it his—commanding it, guiding it, rather than letting it take the reins.
Suddenly, the door to his room creaked open, and his master stepped inside. He raised an eyebrow at Riven's focused expression.
"Guess you finally figured it out, huh?" his master said, the familiar teasing grin on his face.
Riven turned around, a grin spreading across his face. "I think I did. No more fighting wild winds. I'm the one in control now."
His master chuckled. "About time. Took you long enough, kid."
Riven laughed. "Better late than never, right?"
His master gave him a nod of approval. "Exactly. You've got a long road ahead of you, but now you've got the right foundation. The storm inside you isn't your enemy anymore—it's your strength."
Riven smirked, stepping forward. "Well, then... I guess I'll make sure it's one hell of a storm."
And for the first time in a long while, Riven didn't feel the pressure of the world on his shoulders. He wasn't just fighting to survive anymore. He was fighting because he knew exactly who he was—and exactly what he was capable of.