The warehouse Albus led Rod to was unlike anything Rod had seen in Dustvale. Tucked away in a forgotten corner of the city, it was a cavernous space filled with strange artifacts: books bound in cracked leather, glowing orbs that pulsed faintly, and tools whose purposes Rod couldn't begin to guess.
Albus moved through the cluttered space with ease, shedding his coat and tossing it onto a chair. "You've been playing with fire, kid," he said, gesturing for Rod to sit at a worn wooden table. "Or wind, in your case."
Rod hesitated but complied, his body still aching from the fight. "What was that back there?" he asked. "What did you do to the ground?"
Albus smirked, pulling a flask from his pocket and taking a long swig. "That was me introducing myself."
"That's not what I mean," Rod pressed. "The fire, the shaking—how did you do that? And what's happening to me?"
Albus set the flask down and leaned forward, his eyes piercing. "You've got a gift, kid. A rare one. Most folks go their whole lives without even a glimmer of what you've done in the past week. Controlling the elements? That's no small thing."
Rod shook his head. "I don't control anything. It just… happens."
"That's because you don't understand it yet," Albus said. "But I can teach you. If you're willing to learn."
The next few days passed in a blur of lessons and revelations. Albus explained the basics: how some people, like Rod, were born with a connection to the elements—air, fire, water, and earth. These abilities weren't magic in the traditional sense but rather a manipulation of the natural forces that governed the world.
"Every element has its own temperament," Albus said one morning, tossing a small pebble into the air and catching it again. "Fire's fierce and unpredictable. Water's adaptable but relentless. Earth is steady, and air—well, air is tricky. Hard to control, but powerful when you get it right."
Rod listened intently, though much of it felt overwhelming. He practiced in the open space of the warehouse, focusing on the sensations Albus described.
"Feel the air around you," Albus instructed. "Not just as something you breathe but as something alive. It's there, waiting for you to guide it."
At first, Rod struggled. He clenched his fists, furrowed his brow, and tried to will the wind into motion, but nothing happened. Frustration mounted as the hours dragged on.
"You're overthinking it," Albus said, watching from the corner. "It's not about force. It's about connection. Stop trying to control it—work with it."
Rod took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He focused on the faint tickle of air against his skin, the way it swirled and shifted. Slowly, he extended his hand, imagining the wind flowing through his fingers.
The room grew still, and then, with a soft rush, a breeze began to circle around him.
Rod opened his eyes, a grin spreading across his face. "I did it!"
"Don't get cocky," Albus said, though there was a hint of pride in his voice. "You've taken the first step, but there's a long way to go."
As Rod's control over his abilities improved, so did his understanding of their potential. He learned to summon gusts of wind to knock objects over, create small whirlwinds that danced around the room, and even lift himself a few inches off the ground.
But every success came with new questions.
"Why me?" Rod asked one evening as they sat by the fire, the glow casting long shadows on the warehouse walls.
Albus shrugged. "Why anyone? Some people are born with it, some aren't. It's not something you choose."
"But there must be a reason," Rod insisted.
"Maybe," Albus said, his tone distant. "But chasing reasons won't get you anywhere. Focus on what you've got and what you can do with it."
Rod nodded, though the answer didn't satisfy him.
One night, during a particularly intense training session, Rod's frustration boiled over. He'd been trying to create a controlled burst of wind to extinguish a set of candles Albus had placed on the table.
Again and again, he failed. The wind would come, but it was wild and unfocused, knocking the candles over instead of putting them out.
"Damn it!" Rod shouted, slamming his fist onto the table.
"Calm down," Albus said, his voice calm but firm. "Getting angry won't help."
"I'm trying!" Rod snapped. "But it's not enough. What if it's never enough?"
Albus stood and placed a hand on Rod's shoulder. "You're stronger than you think, kid. But strength isn't just about power. It's about patience and control. You've got the spark—you just need to nurture it."
Rod took a deep breath, nodding. He closed his eyes, tuning out everything but the sound of his own heartbeat. Slowly, he raised his hand, focusing on the flicker of air around the candles.
This time, the wind came softly, a gentle breath that snuffed out the flames without disturbing the candles.
Rod opened his eyes, a sense of triumph washing over him.
Albus smiled. "Now you're getting it."
As the days turned into weeks, Rod's confidence grew. He began to see his powers not as a curse but as a tool—one that could change his life and maybe even the fate of Dustvale.
But lurking beneath his newfound hope was a shadow of doubt. Old Smoke wasn't the kind of man to let an insult slide, and Rod knew the Viper gang would come for him again.
When they did, he'd be ready.
Or so he hoped.