Chapter Text
"The truth is we Aes Sedai are cursed too," Liandrin said, angling her body closer to the girl before her. "The one power slows down our aging and we have to sit and watch the people we love pass by instead, helpless to stop it."
"I can see why they don't let you teach novices," Nynaeve replied, a shy smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
Liandrin bowed her head, and when she lifted it there was a softness to her features that the Accepted had never seen before.
"You want to know how we rule this world without collapsing from the pain of loss?" she asked.
"You find a piece of this world that belongs to you and you- hold onto it. And then, when its finally gone, you- you find another."
"Have you-" Nyneave began, "have you found another piece?"
Liandrin held her gaze a moment, before breaking it to brush a bit of dust from her skirts.
"Come," she said, rising to her feet, "it's time we begin your training."
They didn’t walk toward the classrooms where Nynaeve attended her few, rather disastrous, Novice lessons. Nor did they walk towards the Accepted's wing. Instead, she found herself trailing behind the Red sister into the Warders’ quarters—a space she knew well. She had spent long hours there with Ivhon and Maksim, sparring until her limbs ached and her mind felt clear.
Liandrin led her down a flight of stone stairs into a round, darkened chamber. With a flick of her wrists - a weave so quick Nynaeve barely registered the flow of Saidar around the woman's hands - eight sconces erupted in flame, revealing the room for what it was; a fighting ring. Almost identical in size and layout to the training grounds above, though the low ceiling permitted no natural light to enter.
"What are we doing here?" Nynaeve asked, confusion wrinkling her brow.
Liandrin pulled out a creaking weapons rack, sending a cloud of dust swirling into the air.
"Once," she said, a far away look on her face, "This tower was so full of women learning to channel that we had halls and halls of men lining up to become their warders."
With another swift weave, the centuries of dust that had accumulated on the swords and quarterstaffs held in the weapons rack dissolved.
"Now, we barely have enough sisters to fill one wing of the tower. And the poor warders' training grounds lie empty."
Nynaeve watched as she circled the room, examining it.
"I suggest you start stretching," the Aes Sedai said, coming to a halt near the doorway, "When I return, we will begin."
Nynaeve watched her disappear through the mantle, wood-heeled boots echoing on the stone floor. She stared after the woman a moment and then—remembering herself—began to stretch, torso and arms first, followed by legs.
By the time she'd finished, Liandrin stood in the doorway once more, her burgundy dress replaced by a simple red tunic and trousers. She crossed the room, selecting a sword from the rack and testing its weight in her hands.
"I thought you said you wouldn’t bother with swords—" Nynaeve began, only to fall silent as the Aes Sedai’s steely gaze met hers.
"Oh, I won’t. This is for you," Liandrin said, handing her the blade.
"I-I’m not sure I understand."
"You’ve made it clear that you’d rather train like a Warder than a Sister," she replied, lowering into a fighting stance. "And I am nothing, if not accommodating of my pupils' demands."
Nynaeve sized the woman up for a beat - torn between laughing and lunging into an attack - before finally deciding to go along with whatever *this* was.
"Alright. Where’s your weapon?"
"You may fight like a Warder, Nynaeve al'Meara, but that doesn’t mean I will."
With that, the Red Sister channeled. A ribbon of power wove itself into her hand, coalescing into a sword of pure light.
Nynaeve’s grip tightened on the hilt. "You’re going to fight me with the Power?"
"I’m going to remind you that true strength doesn’t lie in steel or wood," Liandrin said coolly.
"Begin."
Their swords clashed with a sharp ring. Nynaeve was faster than Liandrin expected—blunt, raw, and furious—but her form was unrefined, heavy where it should have been quick.
Liandrin didn’t counter with muscle. Instead, she danced. Her sword, light as thought, flicked away Nynaeve’s attacks with minimal effort. When Nynaeve lunged, Liandrin slipped past her shoulder and the sword that she carried transformed into a whip, landing a sharp blow to the younger woman's ribs. Not enough to rend skin, but certainly enough to sting.
"Too slow."
"You're cheating!" Nynaeve hissed, face flushed.
"No," Liandrin said, circling her. "I’m using every resource available to me. Just as you should."
Nynaeve spun, feinted high, and ducked low. Liandrin didn’t block this time—she simply stepped out of range and raised her Power-wrought sword once more, waiting.
"Again," she said.
By the fourth exchange, Nynaeve was sweating and winded. Her strikes had grown wilder, her anger driving her harder than any lesson with Ivhon had. Liandrin blocked, turned, disarmed—and then stopped short, power-wrought blade hovering at Nynaeve’s throat.
"You are not a Warder," she said quietly. "You’re something far more dangerous. Something far more worthwhile. It's time you started acting like it."
The sword dissolved in a shimmer of light and Nynaeve swallowed hard.
Stepping closer, Liandrin extended a hand—not to steady Nynaeve, but to offer the hilt of the practice blade once more.
"Again."
Nynaeve gritted her teeth as their blades clashed again. Her arms trembled with strain; Liandrin hadn’t let up once. The Red Sister was relentless—precise, silent, and utterly unimpressed.
"Come on child," Liandrin taunted, parrying another wild strike. "I know you have more in you."
Nynaeve let out a frustrated growl and threw herself forward again. Steel met light—and then the blade was torn from her hand, clattering across the stone floor. She stood, chest heaving, fists clenched.
"This is a waste of time!" she shouted.
"You're right," Liandrin said softly, stepping forward. Her voice, calm and dangerous, sliced cleaner than any sword. "It is. It is a waste of my time, certainly. Not to mention yours. And it will continue to be, until you stop pretending-"
Nynaeve's eyes flashed dangerously.
"I'm not pretending-"
"You are. I know what you are capable of, Nynaeve al'Meara. It is far more than swordsman could ever dream of. More than a Warder. More than a Wisdom, even."
With each sentence, the Red sister drew nearer.
"Every minute. Every second you deny your own power, you lay to waste the centuries of labor that brought you to this place."
She picked up the discarded sword, holding it by the hilt.
"You squander the resources that the sisters of this Tower might use to serve other women."
She pressed the hilt of the sword into Nynaeve's hands.
"You belittle the sacrifices made to bring you here."
Nynaeve thought of her father, then, hand clasped over her mouth in the cellar. How he had given his last breath to keep her alive.
Her knuckles tightened around the blade.
"You make mockery of the sacrifices that they make, even now, to let you grow into your full potential."
The Accepted thought, then of Lan, kissing her goodbye that last day in Sheinar. Insisting she go to the Tower, so she could train.
Nynaeve swung wildly, not aiming to hit so much as to stop the woman from progressing any further. To stop her from speaking.
Liandrin parried the blow with a weave of air.
"You waste the sacrifices you, yourself, made, in those arches-"
The sound of her daughter's voice filled Nynaeve's ears. And with that, something in her broke open.
Like water bursting through a dam, the One Power rushed into her—warm and wild and too much. It roared through her veins, filled her lungs, lit the edges of her vision with threads of white-hot light. Nynaeve went to raise the sword again, but the force of the power she'd drawn blew it across the room, clattering to the floor.
Liandrin didn’t flinch. She nodded once, measured.
"Good," she said. "Now hold onto it."
Nynaeve’s hands trembled with the strain. Light crackled around her fingertips, and she took a step back, barely in control.
"Don’t let it go," Liandrin instructed, stepping into her space. "Let it wrap around your hands. Feel it. Now—breathe."
Nynaeve blinked, sweat slicking her brow.
"In for six," Liandrin said, voice smooth as silk. "Hold for six. Out for six."
Nynaeve obeyed—slowly, shakily.
"Again. On each exhale, release a bit of the Source."
With each breath the glow around her dimmed slightly. Her breathing steadied.
"Good. Keep going, until there is only the faintest trickle left."
The Accepted obeyed, the threads around her shrinking until only one, wrapped lazily around her wrists.
"Now increase it. On every inhale. Let it fill you again."
Nynaeve inhaled. Once. Twice. Three times. The Power surged. It stung now—sharp heat pulsing beneath her skin.
"Hold it there. Let it burn, just a little. Feel it beneath your skin."
Liandrin stepped close. She reached out, fingers brushing Nynaeve’s neck, finding the pulse just below her jaw. Her touch was unexpectedly gentle.
"Listen to your heartbeat," she said. "Memorize this rhythm. This is what you feel like when you’re not wasting your life."
Nynaeve’s breath caught.
"Your body remembers what you are," Liandrin murmured. "Your mind must learn to remember too."
For a long moment, they stood in silence—the training ring quiet but for Nynaeve’s labored breathing and the soft hum of the One Power, still flickering around her like wind-blown embers.
And then—it all became too much.
Nynaeve gasped and released the Power all at once. It tore out of her like a scream swallowed down. Her knees buckled.
Liandrin caught her before she hit the floor. Just barely.
"I have you," she said, voice laced with care. "I have you. You did well."
After what felt like an eternity, Nynaeve lifted her gaze to meet the Aes Sedai's.
"Lesson number one," the blonde said, locking eyes with her pupil, "There are many ways to let the power in - you will find your own. But once that door is open, you don't just seize Saidar. You let it take you."
Nynaeve clung to her sleeve, sweat pouring down her face, her limbs too heavy to lift.
"And that," Liandrin added, brushing damp hair from her forehead, "is how you channel."
Weeks Later
The bruises no longer surprised her.
They bloomed on her arms and thighs like dusk-colored flowers, evidence of mornings spent being knocked to the ground in the Warder’s training ring. She’d learned to fall properly—that was something, at least. Maksim had even complimented her once when he passed through, though he didn’t linger long. No one did. Not when Liandrin was there.
Nynaeve rubbed her shoulder where she’d landed hard that morning and sat cross-legged in the quiet of her quarters, trying to breathe through the frustration. In for six, hold for six, out for six. The rhythm came easy now. The Power did not.
Some days it refused her completely. Other days, it came only when her pulse was a hammer in her throat and her skin burned from effort. She hated that about herself. Hated the look in Liandrin’s eyes when she struggled to hold on long enough to form weaves that girls barely into their second week had already mastered.
But Liandrin never scolded. Never belittled her efforts. Only offered quiet instruction.
"I can practically see you thinking about budding flowers," she'd said that morning, tossing Nynaeve’s practice cloth across the room. "You’re not a gardener, girl. You’re a woman. The Source lives in your body. Not your thoughts. Listen to it."
Nynaeve had tried. Light, she had tried.
She sat now with her eyes closed, fingers pressed to the spot beneath her jaw where Liandrin had once checked her pulse. She inhaled. Held. Exhaled.
Nothing.
"Burn you," she muttered.
That was when the knock came—sharp, insistent. She rose, halfway expecting it to be Egwene or Elayne, or even Sheriam with some chore for her to complete.
It was neither.
A novice in white stood outside her door, eyes wide and cheeks flushed from running.
"This just arrived for you," the girl said, holding out a sealed letter.
Nynaeve took it, her heart leaping the moment she saw Perrin’s handwriting. Light, she missed him. And Mat. And Rand-
She shut the door before she opened it.
The letter was brief. Perrin never used more words than he had to.
Nynaeve,
We ran into trouble near Falme. Loial and the Shienarans were taken by a group of invaders - they call themselves the Seanchan.
I’m going after them. Don’t know what I’ll find.
I don’t expect you to come—but I thought you should know- in case something happens. I miss you.
—Perrin
She stared at the page for a long moment, the words smudging as her hand tightened around the parchment.
Seanchan.
Loial. Captured.
Perrin-
Nynaeve didn’t hesitate.
She tore open her chest at the foot of the bed, pulled out her coat, her belt pouch, the small dagger she’d kept hidden beneath her underthings. She moved quickly, calmly, with practiced hands. She didn't need to think. She had made the decision before the letter had even reached her door.
There was only one thing left to do.