Thank you again @wrestlegirl1 for trusting me with Amethyst.

The dryad, whose name was Melia, began the lesson. "You must not push," she explained patiently, her voice a gentle murmur. "Your magic has always been about projecting your will outward. This is the opposite. You must quiet your mind. Feel the life of the tree, and let your own life... yield to it. Become part of its song, do not write a new one."

Amethyst tried. She placed her hand on the smooth, cool bark of the willow, closed her eyes, and reached out with her magic. But her power, so precise for creating illusions, felt clumsy and blunt. She pushed, she pulled, she tried to force a connection, growing more frustrated with every failed attempt as the willow remained serenely indifferent to her efforts.

"I can't do it!" she finally cried out, pulling her hand back as if the bark had burned her. "It won't listen!"

Frustration boiling over, Amethyst slammed her eyes shut. She gave up trying to merge with the willow, giving up on listening for its song. Instead, she just focused on the feeling of being a tree—the deep roots she imagined plunging into the earth, the rising sap, the connection to nature she knew was buried deep inside her own bloodline.

In that moment of surrender to her own power, something shifted. Her skin began to ripple, hardening into a dark, obsidian bark. Her black hair with its purple highlights lengthened, twisting and branching out into delicate, yet thorny, boughs tipped with deep violet leaves.

A hushed whisper spread through the grove. From behind trees and out of shimmering pools of light, a crowd of curious onlookers appeared. Pixies with dragonfly wings, solemn-faced fauns, and sprites made of pure sunlight gathered to watch.

They had seen many transformations, but never one like this. Amethyst was not becoming a willow of Arcadia; she was becoming a new, unique tree born of her own powerful, inner magic.

The transformation crested, a silent explosion of dark, beautiful power. Then, just as quickly, it receded. The thorny branches softened back into hair, the obsidian bark smoothed into skin, and Amethyst collapsed at the foot of the willow, gasping for breath.

She was herself again, but exhausted and trembling, the centre of attention for a silent, watchful crowd of fae.

Amethyst pushed herself up on shaky elbows, the moss cool against her skin. Her head was spinning, and a phantom ache echoed through her limbs, as if they remembered being twisted into branches.

She stared at her own hands, flexing her fingers, half-expecting to see thorns. They were just hands.

Her hands.

What the hell just happened? The thought screamed through her mind.

Melia knelt beside her, her serene face filled with profound astonishment. "That... was not the song of the willow," the dryad breathed. "That was a song I have never heard. It came from you."

"You commanded nature to become you," Maximillian's voice cut through the whispers. "That chaos... you must learn to control it before it consumes you."

Amethyst looked down, trembling. "It felt so... angry. So powerful. I don't know if I can."

"The song is not just one note," Melia said gently, touching Amethyst's shoulder. Her touch was like cool bark and warm sunlight. "The tree you became was born of frustration and defiance. But there are other verses. What does the part of your song that sings of loyalty sound like? Of fierce, protective friendship?"

Maximillian nodded, his expression pragmatic. "Raw power is useless without focus. That chaos needs an anchor. Think, child. What focuses you? What do you fight for?"

Amethyst closed her eyes, the curious faces of the fae fading away. She let the memory of the chaotic power rise again, but this time she didn't fight it. She guided it. She thought of Tinbunny’s unshakeable loyalty, of Nightshade's quiet strength, of Barwell's steadfast presence. The chaotic energy swirled, seeking a form.

Then, she thought of Lotor.

Her feline companion.

She pictured his silent, powerful grace, the feeling of his steady companionship, the wild spirit that mirrored a part of her own.

She focused on that single, clear image—a hunter, a friend, a silent guardian.

And just like that, the transformation took her. It was not a struggle this time, but a release.

Her form flowed, bones shifting, muscles tightening. She dropped to all fours as her skin was covered in a coat of sleek, midnight-black fur that shimmered with deep purple highlights in the Arcadian light. Her face elongated into a feline muzzle, and her ears shot up, becoming long and tufted. Her eyes opened, no longer human, but the glowing amethyst eyes of a predator.

She stood, a lynx of shadow and twilight, and let out a low, rumbling growl that was her own, yet utterly wild. The crowd of fae took a collective, silent step back. Melia watched with wonder, and even Maximillian allowed a flicker of something akin to impressed surprise to cross his weary face. The song had found a new verse.

For a long moment, Amethyst simply was the lynx. The world was a tapestry of sharp scents on the breeze and the rustle of unseen things in the undergrowth. Her inner song was a low, purring thrum of focus and predatory calm. But as her human consciousness gently reasserted itself, the intense focus—the song of the lynx—began to fade. The primal thrum quieted.

As the song stopped, the form dissolved. It was a fluid, startlingly gentle process. The midnight fur receded into skin, her limbs stretched back into human proportions, and she found herself kneeling on the moss once more, breathless but exhilarated.

She had done it. On purpose.

A ripple of excited chattering went through the crowd of fae. They were no longer afraid; they were impressed.

"You see?" Melia's voice was filled with delight. "Your song is the key. You do not need to borrow the shape of my willow. You have a whole symphony of your own."

The rest of the afternoon became a grand, impromptu recital. Guided by Melia and Maximillian, Amethyst explored the verses of her inner song. Focusing on the feeling of freedom and soaring sight, she became a hawk, her feathers the colour of a deep bruise under a twilight sky.

Concentrating on stillness, patience, and drawing life from the earth, she transformed into a single, perfect hyacinth, its petals a velvety black tipped with radiant purple. And for the finale, channeling a song of thunderous power and wild grace, she became a magnificent horse, her coat a shifting shadow, her mane and tail streams of violet energy.

With each transformation, her control grew, and the awe of her audience deepened. The initial gathering of curious fae had swelled to include stern-faced elves in iridescent armour and other, stranger denizens of Arcadia. They had come to witness the birth of a new and potent magic.

As the impossible sun of Arcadia began to set, casting long, golden shadows, the atmosphere shifted from a lesson to a celebration.

A great bonfire was lit in the center of the grove, its flames leaping high into the air, burning with colours Amethyst had never seen. The sound of pipes and drums echoed through the trees as a wild hunt was declared in her honour.

Wine, dark and sweet, flowed freely from enchanted flagons. The denizens of Arcadia, a people who lived for novelty and power, had found both in Amethyst, and a party had begun.

The revelry was wild and timeless, but eventually Maximillian touched Amethyst’s arm. “That is enough. It is time to return.”

Amethyst, flushed with wine and success, felt a pang of regret at leaving the vibrant chaos. With a final farewell to Melia and the cheering fae, she took his hand. The world tore again, the scent of woodsmoke and wild magic replaced in an instant by the familiar, comforting smell of old stone and polished wood.

They were back in the rehearsal room. Claude stood exactly where they had left him, a look of concern on his face. “Are you alright, ma chérie? You flickered for a moment.”

Amethyst stared at him. “Flickered? We were gone for hours!”

Maximillian smoothed a wrinkle from his harlequin suit.

“Time is… inconsistent in Arcadia. In that grove, it flows faster. We were gone the space of a single breath here.” He looked at Amethyst. “Show him.”

Eager to demonstrate, Amethyst closed her eyes, reaching for the song of the lynx. But it was muted, distant. The raw, vibrant magic of Arcadia was gone, and here, in the solid reality of the Blockhouse, the transformation wouldn’t catch. It was like trying to light a fire with damp wood. “I… I can’t,” she said, frustrated. “It’s not working.”

“The song is different here,” Maximillian said, his voice calm. “The air is not thick with raw creation. You must learn to listen to a new tune. Feel the song of this Blockhouse, Amethyst. Its strength. Its history. Its resilience.”

Amethyst tried again, focusing on the ancient stones, the weight of the castle around her. She felt something—a deep, resonant hum of stability—but her own song couldn’t find the right key to harmonize with it.

Seeing her struggle, Claude moved to the piano. “Perhaps, my dear, you simply need the right accompaniment.” His fingers found the keys, and the gentle, soaring melody she had used to create her illusionary doves filled the room.

The music was a key. It unlocked something within her.

Her own inner song of peace and freedom resonated with the piano’s melody and the Blockhouse’s deep hum of safety. She felt the right verse click into place.

Her body felt weightless as the transformation flowed through her, effortless and sure. Her arms lengthened into wings feathered in midnight black and tipped with iridescent purple. She launched into the air, a living, breathing dove.

Claude’s music swelled, and as he played, a flock of his perfectly crafted, luminous doves shimmered into existence around her.

Amethyst, in her new form, flew among them—a single, dark, real bird in a flock of beautiful ghosts. It was a perfect harmony of their two magics, a promise of the incredible things they could now create together.

As Amethyst reformed back into her human form, Maximilian and Claude clapped.

"You will find out of here, it will be more difficult to transform as the tune is hidden more away, but not impossible. Practice, sing, find the tune and then when confident you know the words, especially when you are able to start creating your own 'reservoir'" said Maximilian.