Time did not pass in the Jungle of Giants.
It accumulated.
It layered itself over Midarion's body like bark over wounded wood—slow, indifferent, impossible to rush.
The first week nearly broke him.
Every dawn began the same way. Theomar would wake him before the light reached the forest floor.
Keel usually beat him to it, crawling across his chest and flicking his tail against Midarion's nose until he groaned and rolled away.
Midarion would sigh and then stand. Daybreak crept through the canopy in pale ribbons of light, illuminating the clearing they'd come to use as a temporary camp. Nothing about the jungle felt welcoming—not the way the air pressed against the skin, not the way every sound felt watched.
This was routine now.
Run first. Always run.
They moved through familiar paths, Midarion's breath coming in controlled bursts as he followed He ran until his lungs burned and his legs trembled, until the jungle stopped being scenery and became an obstacle course designed by something that hated him personally. Roots grabbed at his ankles. Vines snapped his face. The ground rose and fell like a breathing beast.
After the run came climbing.
The tree Theomar chose was older than kingdoms. Its bark was ridged like armor plates, its trunk so wide Midarion could sprint around it without completing a full circle. Somewhere near its crown, far above the canopy, clear water gathered in natural hollows—rain filtered by living wood.
"Drink from the top," Theomar said on the first day.
"That's impossible," Midarion replied, staring straight up until his neck hurt.
Theomar smiled faintly. "Good. Then start climbing."
The first attempts ended with scraped hands and bruised ribs. The second week added blood. By the third, Midarion learned where to place his weight, which grooves held and which betrayed you at the worst moment. He never reached the water.
Not once.
But he climbed a little higher every day.
After climbing came meditation.
They sat on stone warmed by the morning sun. The jungle hummed around them—wings, leaves, distant calls that sounded far too intelligent for comfort.
"Listen inward," Theomar instructed. "Kosmo is not summoned. It answers."
Midarion listened.
Nothing answered back.
Kosmo remained silent. Empty. A locked door that did not even acknowledge his knocking.
By the end of the first week, frustration replaced hope. By the second, anger. By the third, he stopped expecting anything at all.
Still, he sat.
Every day.
Crafting filled the hours between midday and dusk.
Theomar handed him tools made of stone and bone, then pointed toward fallen branches.
"A bow," he said. "Strong enough not to shatter. Flexible enough to sing."
Midarion failed. Repeatedly.
The first snapped when bent. The second warped. The third looked impressive and collapsed the moment tension was applied.
"You're thinking too hard," Theomar said, watching the pile grow.
Midarion wiped sweat from his eyes. "I thought that was the point."
Theomar snorted. "Thinking is easy. Listening is not."
Something clicked.
By the end of the third week, Midarion produced a bow that held. Not elegant. Not beautiful. But solid. The string sang low and steady when pulled.
The arrows followed. Straight shafts. Balanced weight. Tips hardened over fire.
He surprised himself.
"You have hands meant for making," Theomar observed.
Midarion glanced at the bow, then at his scarred palms. "They mostly make mistakes."
"Yes," Theomar said. "And then they learn."
The spear came next. Simpler. A length of wood, fire-hardened to a cruel point.
"Bow for small prey," Theomar explained, adjusting Midarion's stance. "Spear for medium. Anything larger…"
He tapped Midarion's chest once.
"…requires Kosmo."
Midarion said nothing.
Hunting preparation became ritual.
Fruits in the morning. Always. Never hunt on an empty body or a heavy one. Fire before nightfall, even if you're exhausted, even if you think nothing is watching.
"Something always is," Theomar said.
By the fourth week, Midarion moved differently.
His muscles hardened. His breathing steadied. His senses sharpened until the jungle no longer felt like noise—it felt like information.
He could hear insects shift before they leapt. Smell rain before clouds gathered. Feel eyes on his back long before danger revealed itself.
Kosmo remained absent.
Meditation remained empty.
His body advanced.
His spirit waited.
The first hunt happened in the fourth week.
Midarion tracked a small antlered beast through fern and shadow. His steps were careful. His breathing controlled. He remembered everything Theomar taught him.
Almost everything.
He almost succeeded.
Almost.
A snapped twig.
The sound was tiny.
It was enough.
The creature vanished in a blur of muscle and leaves.
Midarion stood frozen, bow half-raised, heart pounding.
That night, by the fire, he stared into the flames.
"I failed," he said.
Theomar stirred the embers. "Yes."
"…That's it?"
"You failed because you are alive," Theomar replied. "Tomorrow, you will fail differently."
Week five began heavier.
Midarion tracked again. Better this time. Slower. Quieter. His body knew what to do now. The jungle parted for him in small mercies.
The animal appeared.
Perfect angle. Clean shot.
Midarion drew the bow.
And stopped.
The beast lifted its head, unaware. Breathing. Existing.
Midarion's arms shook.
The prayer.
He had forgotten the prayer.
Theomar's words echoed uninvited: Respect the life you take. Ask forgiveness before you claim it.
Midarion tried to speak.
No sound came.
The arrow wavered.
Compassion flooded him—violent, overwhelming. The realization that this life would end because of his need.
The beast turned. Their eyes met.
Then it ran.
Midarion lowered the bow slowly.
When he returned, Theomar was waiting.
"I couldn't," Midarion said, voice raw. "I froze."
Theomar studied him for a long moment. Then nodded.
"Good."
Midarion blinked. "Good?"
"You remembered the weight," Theomar said. "That matters more than success."
Silence stretched.
"…Will it get easier?" Midarion asked.
"No," Theomar replied. "You will get stronger."
That night, Midarion lay beside the fire, Keel curled against his chest. The small dragon chirped softly, tail flicking.
"I almost did it today," Midarion whispered.
Keel blinked at him.
"…You're not judging me, right?"
Keel sneezed a spark.
Midarion smiled despite himself.
Elsewhere, far from the jungle's suffocating green, Reikika moved.
Her sword felt lighter each day. Her body remembered what her mind no longer questioned. Forms flowed into each other. Footwork sharpened. Breath aligned with motion.
Her progress was clean.
Almost unfair.
Back in the jungle, weeks six through eight blurred.
Routine became survival.
Run. Climb. Fall. Rise.
Meditate. Hear nothing.
Craft. Improve.
Hunt. Prepare.
Fail.
But fail better.
By the end of the eighth week, Midarion stood beneath the giant tree, staring upward. He climbed higher than ever before.
Still not high enough.
Yet.
Kosmo remained silent.
But his body was no longer the same.
And the jungle had begun to notice.