Kairos stood at the lodge's door, staring into the greenish mist that curled around the swamp. His breaths came easier now, steadier, though his lungs still felt tight, not fully healed.
The fire in his chest simmered, calmer but restless, like it was annoyed at being stuck in this weak body. The ache in his shoulder and legs had dulled, manageable.
Hunger gnawed at his stomach, thirst scratched his throat, but he pushed them aside. Those could wait. Right now, he needed to figure out this human shell, Aerion's body, his new cage.
He glanced at his hands, grimy and scratched, nails starting to harden at the tips. Not claws yet, but getting there.
A flimsy cage, he thought, half-disgusted, half-curious. Weak as hell, but it's mine. I need to know what it can do.
Kairos stepped outside, the muddy ground cold under the tattered cloth wrapped around his feet. He focused, tuning into his senses, sharper now, like a predator waking up inside him.
The swamp came alive, crickets chirping, one behind the reeds, another by a mangrove root, a third near the water. A faint hiss of snakes slithering through mud.
A splash farther out, maybe a fish, maybe something bigger. The wind rustled the reeds, carrying the swamp's stink, rotten, sweet, damp.
Then, something else, smoke, faint, drifting from a couple of kilometers east. A camp, maybe a patrol.
Good, he thought. A normal human wouldn't catch that. This body's starting to listen.
He closed his eyes, feeling the air shift, humid and heavy against his skin. The smell of mud, mold, and a hint of rust, metal, somewhere close.
His eyes snapped open, scanning the swamp. Nothing shiny, but near the lodge's foundation, under the murky water, he spotted a faint glimmer.
Scrap iron? Junk?
Didn't matter. The fact he noticed it meant his senses were getting better, trained by the only teacher he trusted: himself.
"This body's a mess," he muttered, voice low, dripping with irritation. "But it's got potential. Aerion just didn't know how to use it."
Time to test its strength. Kairos dropped into a crouch, back straight, weight balanced, a stance he pulled from Aerion's fuzzy memories of palace training.
His thighs shook, calves burned, but he forced them to hold. His heartbeat was too fast, weak compared to what he was used to.
He breathed deep, sucking in the swamp's foul air, letting it out slow, counting the beats.
Then he moved, sprinting forward, dodging roots, jumping over puddles. His legs felt stiff, like they weren't quite his yet.
His foot hit a slick root, slipping, nearly sending him face-first into the mud. He caught himself, hand slamming against a mangrove trunk, the bark scraping his palm.
"Shit," he hissed, annoyed at the clumsiness.
He stood, catching his breath, and pulled the rusty knife from his belt. Spinning it in his hand felt natural, a reflex from a life long gone.
He locked onto a reed stalk ten steps away, thick as a couple of fingers. With a flick, he threw the knife.
It spun, whistling, and hit the stalk with a thwack, but didn't cut through. It stuck, wobbling.
Arm's too weak, he thought, growling. Need to fix that.
Kairos walked over, yanking the knife free. The tip was dull, no surprise.
He sighed, hunting for a stone to sharpen it. He found one by the water, flat and rough, and sat, scraping the blade against it.
The scrape-scrape echoed in the quiet dusk, matching the wind's rustle. He watched his hands, noting every twitch, every muscle pull, every breath. This body had to get stronger, had to be his weapon.
As he worked, his eyes scanned the swamp. Small tracks in the mud caught his attention, not human, but cloven, maybe a deer, heading south along a drier path.
Animal trail. Could be a safe route, he noted. Near the water, he saw churned mud with drag marks.
Something big. Crocodile, maybe. Trap potential. He filed it away.
The knife's edge was sharper now. He tested it with his thumb, nodding, satisfied.
Standing, he stretched, moving through punches, elbows, low kicks, turns. The motions started stiff but smoothed out, his body catching up, bit by bit.
He pictured enemies, Therion's black-clad killers from the Lyceum, the Vaelgard assassin he'd burned. He dodged, parried, stabbed at weak spots: neck, armpit, groin.
Mid-turn, his foot slipped on wet mud. He fell hard, back slamming into the ground with a splat, mud splashing everywhere. Rage flared, hot and sharp.
"Fuck this body!" he snarled, the fire in his chest sparking. He caught himself, breathing hard, forcing the anger down. Losing control wasted energy, risked drawing eyes.
He lay there a moment, staring at the sky, stars starting to poke through the dusk. His breaths were rough, not from pain but frustration.
Then Aerion's memory crept in, him as a kid, falling in the palace yard, Therion laughing, pointing. The smug face made Kairos growl. He shoved the memory deep, locking it away.
He got up, mud dripping from his torn tunic, eyes cold. Falling was a lesson. Slippery ground meant he needed better balance, stronger core muscles.
He'd train it out of this body. He wiped the knife on a reed, sliding it back into his belt.
His gaze flicked to the deer trail south. Mist was thickening, cloaking the swamp, but he could still make out tree shadows and water ripples.
Night's for predators, he thought, a thin smirk crossing his face. But he was the hunter here, learning his ground.
Not tonight, though. The body needed rest, food, water. He turned back to the lodge, its outline dark against the fog.
At the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at the swamp. Insects buzzed, an owl hooted, water splashed somewhere.
"Tomorrow," he said, the word low, heavy in Aerion's throat. "Tomorrow, we hunt."