We stepped into the clearing—vast, open, deliberate. It shouldn't have existed in the heart of a forest, and yet it did. The canopy broke above, letting in dying gold light. The air hung thick with moss and sap. The ground beneath us felt old—like it remembered things we hadn't lived yet.
Grass stretched in every direction. Soft underfoot. Wild. Unyielding. As if it had swallowed a hundred battles and was hungry for more.
"This," Petrus said, twirling his staff once before driving it into the earth, "is where you'll bleed every day from sunup to sunset. Training."
At the time, something like excitement sparked in my chest. That stupid, stubborn flicker. Looking back now, I know better. I didn't yet understand the grind. The pain. The breaking. Or how much of myself I'd leave behind here.
Petrus beckoned. "Torglel. Solari. Come at me. Together."
Torglel and I shared a look. That old rhythm clicked in—years of violence carved into silence. No words. No nods. Just movement.
He flanked left. I went right. Fists arcing in sync.
Petrus launched into the air like gravity owed him money.
I couldn't stop in time. My punch landed square in Torglel's jaw with a sharp, satisfying crunch. He cartwheeled across the clearing like a sack of bricks with trust issues.
He is never letting that go.
I barely had time to curse before Petrus dropped from the sky, a blur of fur and momentum. His fist rocketed past my guard and slammed into my chest. I hit the dirt hard, blood in my mouth, stars behind my eyes.
"You've both have weaknesses." Petrus said casually, his tail flicking as I spat grit and Torglel climbed to his feet, beard full of leaves. "Solari—you're holding back. Your speed's a whisper of what it should be. And you—" he pointed his staff at Torglel, "you hesitate to use your fire. That hesitation will kill you."
He wasn't wrong.
I rolled my shoulder and looked at Torglel. "Wanna run Cage the Beast?"
Torglel rubbed his jaw with a groan. "Aye. Long as I get to hit that smug face at least once."
We had a slew of moves from our Shadow Hand days—tricks drilled into us through sweat and bruises. This one was my favorite. A dance of chaos and control. Last time we tried, it blew out two of our ribs and a tavern wall.
"Careful," I added, cracking my knuckles. "He's got excellent hearing and a questionable sense of vengeance."
We charged again. I pushed harder this time, but something still held me back. Petrus intercepted, his staff cracking across my ribs. I hit the ground, air gone.
Frustration surged. Hot and alive. I stood, lightning snaking across my arms, wild and untamed. My fingers trembled. Not from fear. From challenge.
"Yes," my other self whispered. "There you are."
I moved. Fast. Faster than I ever had.
Petrus met me blow for blow, his staff a blur of parries and counters. Sparks flew. Thunder cracked. Our strikes blurred.
Then—an opening. I caught his wrist. Drove my fist into his jaw. He flew.
I leapt after him, caught him mid-flight, and hammered him down with a punch that cratered the earth. The shockwave blasted through the clearing, dust and leaves erupting skyward.
Then—lines of fire streaked down from above, slamming into the earth in a perfect ring. In an instant, a cage of blazing bars trapped him, every one pulsing with living flame.
Petrus brushed off his robes as if he stumbled over a root. "Excellent. You work better than I thought together."
Alythiel clapped excitedly from the edge of the clearing. Sunlight caught in her silver hair like moonlight trying to keep up.
Torglel flicked his fingers. The wall of fire vanished—no flicker, no warning, just gone, like someone snuffed out a torch. Heat rolled through the clearing, rippling the air and leaving behind scorched earth where the cage had stood. For a moment, all that remained was shimmering haze and the sharp scent of burnt grass.
"Your bond is strong," Petrus said. "But even the finest blade is forged from many metals—each tested on its own, then joined. Strengthen yourselves, and you'll make the teamwork sharper."
"Nothing'll stop us," Torglel added, flashing a crooked grin. "Unless Solari hits me again."
I called it.
I shook my head. "That punch was a morale boost."
Petrus arched a brow. "Even the mighty have cracks."
His words echoed in my mind, unsettling something beneath the surface. I didn't know it then. My own cracks were already spreading.
Days turned into weeks, each one folding into the next. The rhythm of training, exhaustion, and half-remembered dreams became my whole world. The sun rose, the sun set, and I measured progress by bruises and scars.
Petrus trained Alythiel and Laboritus with merciless rhythm—his staff a line of poetry written in bruises. Seluvia trained me and Torglel. Don't let her size fool you—she hit like prophecy come to claim its due.
Seluvia looked up from her spellwork, flicking her tail.
"Everyone's got a natural magic. Dwarves burn hot—fire's in their bones. Drydalis? Lightning. Falstarians heal—they're the best you'll find, if you're unlucky enough to need patching up. Most folks stick with what their blood gives them. But Magicae like me? We're shaped by the wild magic of the world itself. Lets us touch every branch of the arcane—at least a little. Try to force something else, though, and magic bites back. Usually harder than you expect."
That first day? Absolute hellish flames in a bottle. We both screamed. I swore in five languages. Torglel invented a sixth. Pain taught us what books couldn't. Turns out, lightning magic flows through me like blood. Unfortunately. We learned resistance the old-fashioned way—by surviving the blast.
Time folded. A month slid by like a fever dream stitched together with bruises and insomnia.
Then came the first test. Alythiel went first. She moved like a master of dance—each step smooth, each motion deliberate. Petrus came at her with a feint, staff whistling in a downward arc. Alythiel flowed aside, barely shifting her balance, letting the blow glance harmlessly past.
He pressed harder, sweeping low. She leapt, twisting in midair, landing behind him before he could recover. He spun, aiming a strike for her ribs, but she caught the staff on her forearm, redirected the force, and turned his own momentum against him.
Alythiel danced in close, pivoting under his guard. Her elbow drove into his side—a sharp, controlled strike. Petrus staggered, but she didn't let up; a quick step, a sweep of her leg, and he hit the ground. Hard.
She stood over him, breathing steady, utterly unshaken. Balanced as ever.
"Excellent," Petrus said through gritted teeth as he got to his feet. "You'll spar with Solari every day—not just to test your skill, but to learn his weaknesses and your own. Nothing forces growth like facing someone who pushes you to adapt. The more you learn about each other, the stronger you'll both become."
She looked at me, eyes sharp. "Looking forward to it."
"I hope you hit harder than your banter."
She smirked. "You'll find out."
Then came Laboritus. He struck fast. Clean. Each punch carried the thunder of a seasoned Thuumar—powerful enough to break bone if they landed. The air cracked with every blow.
But Petrus was quicker than he looked. He weaved through the barrage, ducking and pivoting with effortless precision. Every time Laboritus pressed in, Petrus slipped just out of reach, reading each attack before it even finished.
"You've got speed," Petrus called out mid-dodge, "but you fight like a Thuumar. All offense. No defense."
Laboritus threw a hook that nearly clipped Petrus's jaw. Petrus countered with a feint, drawing Laboritus forward—then, in one smooth motion, swept his staff low, striking behind the knees.
Laboritus's legs buckled, and he crashed to the ground hard enough to shake dust from the trees. Before he could recover, Petrus stepped onto his chest, planting the staff at his throat—a clear victory.
Laboritus exhaled slowly, jaw rigid, the flicker of frustration crossing his face before he masked it.
Petrus's tail twitched with faint amusement. "You've improved. Learning Kynis Infusion to boost your speed was smart. But if you don't have the skill to back it up, that infusion won't save you."
He stepped down, letting Laboritus rise.
"You'll train with me every day until you can beat me," Petrus said. "And you will. Eventually."
A hush fell over the clearing, the air swirling with the aftershock of the fight. He turned to face us all, his expression calm. Collected. And grim.
"This forest tests everything. Mind. Body. Soul." Then his gaze fell on me. "And you, Solari?" He paused. "It hasn't tested you yet." He let that hang in the air—like a razor's edge pressed just shy of blood. "But it will."
He paused, half-turned like he might walk away—then looked back at me.
"Your father dreamed of a perfect creation, something flawless he could command." A silence settled between us, deep and unmoving as the forest floor. "But what he made—what you are—isn't perfect." His eyes held mine, steady. "It's something rarer: someone free enough to choose their own path." He let that truth settle, then whispered: "That's what makes you dangerous. Not just to him. To everything."
Maybe he was right.
The forest will hurt me now.
Let it try.
Every branch, every root, felt like an eye.
This place wasn't done with me. Not even close.