Breath. It's more than just air; it's a silent anchor, a powerful weapon. Master your breath, and you can calm the storm within, even when your enemies are throwing their swords. It's simple, yet profoundly difficult to master. But once you do, you'll find yourself moving with the very rhythm and flow of the fight.
"Take your breath deeply. Feel the forest and bring it inside you," Gantari said to Raikha, walking slowly between the trees.
The forest breathed around him, slowly, patiently, forever.
Raikha inhaled deeply.
His left foot rose slowly, toes pointing down. His right leg was bent at the knee, and his arms were outstretched like wings, fingers curled inward. This was Bangau, The Crane's silat stance, which called for composure, balance, and quiet. One leg held the body in place while the other floated, like a bird resting in storm winds. It was not a test of strength but of stillness.
Raikha staggered. His breath seized, and his head burned. Invasive and terrible memories—Saka's shattered body, his mother's last sobs, their house burning—tore across him. His wrath shot like steam. His leg moved. He collapsed face-first on the damp, mossy ground.
A cicada buzzed some distance above. Gantari said nothing. Instead, the elderly master knelt next to the fire pit and gently sketched a spiral in the earth with a twig. In a low, steady voice, "Still the wind before you chase the storm."
Raikha stifled a cry of frustration and balled his fists. His breathing was forceful and shallow.
"Silat is not rage," Gantari continued without looking up. "It's rhythm. Listening. Before you strike, give up yourself."
Raikha took the stance, stood up, and gritted his teeth. Then, suddenly, a sharp, intrusive snap echoed through the trees—a branch breaking under weight.
Instinct gripped him. His body tensed, breath freezing. Leaves rustled violently above, like a whisper turned roar.
Grrrrrrrhhhh...
From the shadows—a wild boar burst through, nostrils flaring, tusks gleaming beneath mottled sunlight. It charged headlong, furious and fast.
(hoomp-thoomp)
Heart pounding, Raikha caught Gantari's calm gaze—an unspoken command. Breath. Inhale the world. Exhale the self.
Stepping back, Raikha centered himself into Bangau stance. He moved with newfound patience, steady as the crane, rooted in purpose, not pride. The boar thundered nearer, its world a storm.
Raikha waited, listening to breath between breaths. As the beast lunged, he shifted with deliberate grace, sidestepping just enough to avoid the charge but maintaining balance, grounding himself as Gantari had taught.
The boar slammed against a tree and rebounded, snorting with fury. Raikha's breath slowed. His anger didn't vanish—it transformed into a calm readiness.
Gantari's voice, steady and low, cut through the tension: "You master the breath, Raikha. The storm is in all of us, but the still center guides the edge."
The boar, frustrated, finally surged away into the underbrush, leaving a trembling silence behind.
Raikha exhaled slowly, sweat clinging to his brow. His legs ached, but something deeper had shifted inside him.
whooosshhh...
Then, from above, a sudden rustle followed by the softest footfall. She dropped from the trees like a whispered secret. Limbs folded just right, she landed with silent grace, feet barely kissing the earth. For a heartbeat, she hovered in a low squat—perfect balance, perfect poise. Then she rose slowly, as if time itself respected her rhythm.
A girl.
Bark-woven armor hugged her frame, streaked with threads of obsidian silk that shimmered faintly in the green-gold light. Thorns curved across her shoulders—not harsh, but elegant, as though even the forest's dangers bowed to her.
Raikha's breath caught.
She moved like rain across stone—fluid, quiet, sure. And when her eyes met his, bright and amused, something in his chest gave a strange, involuntary twitch.
She was beautiful—but not in the way of silken courtesans or painted priestesses. No perfumes, no ornaments. Her beauty came from movement, from the wild. Skin bronzed by wind and sun, arms coiled with strength from bows and branches. She was all precision and poise, carved from root and river and the rhythm of trees. Something not built — but grown.
Raikha stared.
Then she opened her mouth.
"If that was the Bangau," she said dryly, "you owe every crane in the forest an apology."
The spell broke.
Raikha blinked. Hard.
Gantari, still by the spiral, didn't laugh—but his mouth twitched.
The girl cocked her head, then lifted one leg in a smooth arc, mimicking Raikha's failed pose with exaggerated elegance. Her arms floated like wings, her balance unshaken.
"See? It's not that hard," she said, smirking. Raikha flushed—partly from exertion. Mostly not.
"Who… who are you?"
"She's Lara," Gantari answered calmly. "Of the Thornstep Clan. One of the last."
He looked between them. "Like you. A child of ruin."
Lara dropped the stance with casual ease, letting her weight settle evenly. She looked at Raikha again, as if trying to decide what to make of him.
"I saw you fall earlier," she said. "Twice. Maybe three times. I stopped counting. But don't worry—if you keep at it, the moss will eventually start to pity you."
Raikha scowled. "I didn't fall. I lost focus."
"Ah. So the ground rose up in reverence, did it?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away.
Gantari's gaze flicked between them—there was something in his eyes now, quiet and watchful. Maybe even pleased. Then he turned to Lara, voice shifting slightly—cooler, a little sharper.
"I thought you were still in the northern glades. Finished your scouting mission already?"
Lara shrugged and brushed a leaf from her sleeve.
"More or less. The old barrow past the third waterfall is quiet. No Kalderan trails. Just a couple of bone shamblers too weak to bother with."
"And the warding glyph?"
"Set it myself. Resin's still fresh. Should hold through the rains—unless someone stomps through with fire."
Gantari nodded slowly. "You returned quickly."
Lara smiled, sly.
"Well, word reached me that a certain boy was starting his training. Thought I'd see if the rumors were true." She turned to Raikha again, giving him a once-over.
"So far, it's mostly sweat and sulking."
Raikha's jaw clenched. "I didn't ask for an audience."
"Good," Lara said. "I'm not an audience. I'm competition."
He blinked. Not sure whether to be annoyed—or impressed. Gantari spoke again, voice returning to that quiet authority.
"Lara. If you're staying, resume your training with the Knife of Ten Steps. Your release still leans left."
"Noted," she said, flipping a small knife between her fingers. "But if he's learning Bangau, I want to see how long it takes before he knocks over my tea cup."
"You don't have a tea cup."
"I will."
Gantari exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh—but close. A hint of a smile ghosted across his face. The wind shifted above them, whispering through the leaves like a secret.
The forest held its breath.
It had two students now.
But something else had come with the thorns—something older, watching, waiting.
And it was not yet ready to show itself.