Morning came cold and early, the mist still clinging to the cliffs like forgotten ghosts.
Elara stood outside the old man's hovel, rubbing sleep from her eyes and clutching the training staff he'd given her. She expected a calm start—stretching, maybe, or a slow walk through forms.
She was wrong.
"Attack me," the old man barked.
Elara blinked. "What?"
"Are your ears frozen? Attack me. Swing. Hit. Try something. Anything."
Elara fumbled with the staff, shifted her feet, and lunged awkwardly.
He dodged with insulting ease.
"You fight like a startled goose."
"I've never seen a goose fight," Elara snapped.
"Exactly. Useless flapping."
From the roof, Fig let out a snort. "To be fair, that lunge was about as effective as a wet feather."
Elara turned, about to snap at him—and the old man swept her legs out from under her in one smooth motion.
She hit the ground with a thump.
"Never take your eyes off your opponent."
"Lesson violently received," she groaned.
The day was a blur of repetition, bruises, and shouted instructions.
Elara stumbled through the early drills, staff clutched too tight, feet out of sync, balance all over the place. The old man—who still hadn't offered his name—moved like a shadow, correcting her form with a poke, a sweep, or an unexpected jab that left her grunting on the ground.
Fig offered constant commentary from a safe distance.
"Feet, Elara! They go under you!"
"Good gods, you nearly decapitated a tree!"
"You've invented a whole new form of flailing!"
Despite everything, Elara began to find a rhythm. Her body, already used to mimicking the guards, remembered how to move. By mid-afternoon, her swings had power. Her footing was steadier. When the old man lunged, she blocked—sloppily, but she blocked.
He grunted approval.
By the time the sun dipped low behind the cliffs, Elara was drenched in sweat, her arms aching, her knees scraped and dirty. But she was smiling.
She hadn't been bested. Not completely.
"You did better than expected," the old man muttered as he handed her a cup of water. "Didn't cry once. That's rare."
"I'll cry when I can lift my arms again," Elara said, sinking onto a nearby rock.
Fig plopped down beside her, wings drooping. "I'm emotionally bruised just from watching."
The old man chuckled, actually chuckled, and settled near the fire. For a moment, silence stretched comfortably between them.
Then his eyes dimmed, gaze distant.
"Long ago," he said, "I trained a girl who reminded me of you. Fierce. Stubborn. Wanted to save the world." He stared into the flames. "She did. She saved a lot of people."
Elara sat up, curious but quiet.
"She was the love of my life," he said simply. "Brightest soul I'd ever known."
"What happened to her?" Elara asked gently.
He was quiet for a long time. The only sound was the wind through the cliffs and the fire popping softly.
"She died," he said at last. "Saving fools who didn't deserve her. And I couldn't stop it."
The words hung heavy in the air.
"I swore I'd never train another," he added. "Didn't want to feel that kind of loss again."
Elara swallowed. "But you're training me."
His gaze shifted back to her, steady and tired and full of something ancient.
"You've got a light in you, girl. And it's either going to burn the world clean or burn you out. I'd like to help you make it the first."
Elara looked down at the pendant around her neck, the magic pulsing softly like a heartbeat.
"Thank you," she said, meaning it.
He grunted and tossed her a rag. "Don't thank me yet. Tomorrow's worse."
Fig groaned. "Fantastic. I'll dig the grave now."
The next day was, somehow, worse.
Elara had woken sore, groaning before she even sat up—and then the old man had smiled, a wolfish grin that spelled doom.
By midmorning, she was on her back for the fifth time, gasping for breath.
"Up!" he barked.
"I was up," she wheezed, dragging herself off the rocky ground. "For like—half a second."
"Then do better."
Despite the pain, despite the grumbling and the bruises and the sweat pouring down her spine, she was improving. Every strike she blocked felt sharper, more instinctual. Every dodge, smoother. Her body was remembering things her mind still didn't understand—flashes of motion, strength, balance.
Still, she wasn't winning.
Not even close.
By midday, he'd called a break—or what she thought would be a break.
Instead, he marched her to the edge of a ravine where a tall, gnarled tree grew out from the cliff wall, its long limb stretching over a bed of jagged rocks.
"You're joking," she said.
The old man just pointed with a stick.
"Up. Balance drill."
"Balance drill?"
"Simple. Walk out. Stay there. Don't fall."
"And if I do?"
"You'll fall."
Elara muttered a prayer to every forgotten god she'd ever heard of and climbed the tree.
It was worse up there. The wind tugged at her hair, and the branch wobbled under every tiny shift of weight. She inched forward, arms stretched out like wings, biting her tongue with every wobble.
She had just managed to find a halfway-stable stance when—
Poke.
"Hey!" she shouted.
The old man stood beneath the tree, stick in hand, jabbing upward at her feet.
"Balance under pressure," he said mildly. Poke.
"I am going to fall!"
"Then fall better."
Fig was on the ground, wheezing with laughter. "Oh gods, this is the best day of my life. Do it again."
"Traitor!" Elara shouted.
Poke.
Then her foot slipped.
Time slowed as she tumbled off the branch. Wind roared in her ears. She hit the ground with a sickening crunch, pain exploding through her arm and shoulder.
She lay still, eyes wide, gasping. "I think—I think I broke my—"
The old man was already there.
He knelt beside her, muttering something low and ancient. His hands hovered over her arm, glowing faintly with golden-blue light. The pain drained away like water pulled into earth. Bones shifted. Muscles reknit.
Elara blinked up at him, stunned. "You can heal?"
Even Fig gawked. "You can do magic?"
The old man stood, brushing dirt off his knees like nothing had happened. "You don't survive this long by being good at just one thing."
He turned to walk away.
"Wait," Elara said, cradling her now-healed arm. "Where are you going?"
"Rest. You'll need it." He waved over his shoulder. "And don't fall asleep with your mouth open. Birds'll build a nest."
Then he was gone—disappearing over the ridge like smoke, leaving her sitting in the grass, dazed, whole, and a little more curious than before.
Elara looked at Fig.
Fig looked at her.
"I don't know what hurts more," he said, "your arm or my pride."
She groaned. "It's going to be a long week."
That night, sleep found Elara fast. Her body, battered and sore from the day's brutality, had no strength left to resist it. She curled beneath the thin wool blanket in the corner of the hovel, Fig already snoring in a curled-up ball near the fire.
But rest brought no peace.
Again, she found herself in the dream realm.
The world was unchanged—mist curling over black glass, stars scattered like shattered diamonds across the sky, and the endless, unblinking forest looming just beyond reach. And, as before, he was there.
The cloaked figure.
His back to her.
"You know," he said, voice calm and conversational, "most people don't come here twice. You really are terrible at boundaries."
Elara clenched her fists. "You're in my head."
"No. You came to mine. Again." He let out a dramatic sigh. "Truly, the rudeness is stunning."
She stepped forward, determination tightening her voice. "I don't have to kill you. There might be another way. We could—"
He chuckled—a dark, hollow sound that echoed too long. "Oh, little ashvine. You're still hoping this is a fairytale."
Elara flinched.
"There is no other path," he continued, still not facing her. "This story has been written in blood and time. You will kill me. And I can't let that happen. So…" his hand lifted slightly, fingers twitching as shadows began to stir, "I'll keep trying."
Dark mist burst from the ground like claws.
Elara screamed, stumbling back as the fog lunged for her, hissing with a thousand whispers. It wrapped around her legs, coiling, burning cold against her skin. Her limbs locked up, breath stolen.
Then—light.
The pendant at her chest ignited, pulsing like a living flame.
The shadows recoiled with a screech.
The world shattered like glass, and she shot upright in her bedroll, chest heaving, a scream ripping from her throat.
The fire was low. The hovel was quiet. Fig nearly fell off his perch in surprise.
"Elara?!"
She didn't answer at first—just stared down at the glowing pendant against her chest. It pulsed softly, steadily. A heartbeat. A tether.
Her shaking hands wrapped around it.
"It saved me," she whispered. "That dream… I think it was going to kill me."
Fig landed beside her, eyes wide. "Can dreams do that?"
"His could." She exhaled sharply. "But this"—she held up the pendant, still glowing—"this pulled me out. If I hadn't had it…"
"You might've been reincarnated again," Fig said grimly.
Elara nodded, still gripping the pendant like a lifeline. "And I don't think I'd be so lucky the next time."
Outside, the wind howled over the cliffs like a warning.
Inside, Elara lay back down—wide awake, heart racing—but alive