She was angry.
Anger persisted as a side effect of her ability to control fire; the emotion rolled through her like molten lava, threatening to spew through her pores at any given moment. The mind, Aurora would always say, controlled the body, therefore the mind should always be strong. (Of course, Angelia would not always agree, being more agile than mentally controlled.)
But the soul, Felice interjected softly, superseded them all.
Her soul toiled with restlessness and fury. Perhaps that was why, when she picked up the bo, even though her mind and body had transcended to a space of peaceful tranquility, her fingertips darkened the mahogany wood.
“You can refuse you know,” he told her, back straight, the grip on his own bo firm but casually dangerous.
A muscle twitched in her thigh–the only movement of her body. Her soul, on the other hand, smoldered with contempt.
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