The Verdant Maw thrummed with deepening rhythm as Kairo's moons in its embrace stretched toward a full cycle, emerald veins pulsing stronger through bark and soil. Vines now parted before him like courtiers, their leaves brushing his shoulders in rhythmic salute—while nightflowers bloomed in his wake, mist veiling his path in sweet luminescence.
Sprites danced openly at his heels, their amber eyes sparkling with trust and the air carried his name on every breeze, woven into ancestral songs. Yet the harmony held shadows; Elder Kimuri's chants from the village grew laced with vigilance—rumble… guard… rumble—and the distant dune thrums sharpened, a mocking underbeat—thrum… heh… thrum.
With rituals mastered, Elder Raha deemed it time to forge Kairo's light into a blade. "Balance without strength is a reed in the storm," he declared one mist-shrouded dawn, leading Kairo to the Thorn Ring, a hidden glade ringed by thorn-vines that writhed like living serpents—twist-hiss-twist. Here, the Kiroho trained their warriors' dance, earth scarred with footprints of generations, air humming with latent Aura—hum-echo-hum.
Sunlight filtered through woven canopy in dappled blades—shimmer-slash-shimmer—casting the ring in golden-green warfare. This was their first true spar—no rituals, no chants, just root and rhythm against flesh and light. Raha wanted to see his pupil's core: How strong was the Promise Child, truly?
Elder Raha shed his vine-band, revealing a wiry frame etched with faded battle-runes—emerald scars from his youth's trials, gold flecks tracing veins like lightning in soil. His deep green eyes narrowed, gold-flecked and piercing. "Show me your roots, Mwana wa Nuru," he said, voice rustling like wind through thorns.
He assumed the Root Stance: feet planted wide in loam—squish-anchor-squish—knees bent like ancient trunks, arms curved as coiling branches, palms open to summon earth's pulse—thrum-ready-thrum. No staff, no Aura flare—just the elder's unyielding form, vines curling at his feet like eager hounds.
Kairo faced him, heart drumming. Twelve years old, yet his bronze frame had hardened in the Maw's trials, golden veins glowing steady emerald-gold. He mirrored the stance, bare feet sinking deep—squish-root-squish—drawing breath as Raha taught: inhale earth, hold spirit, exhale strike—breathe… hold… release. "Begin," Raha murmured.
Kairo lunged first, golden Aura flaring in a Sunburst Palm—Jua roots surging forward, palm glowing radiant—bloom-strike-bloom. Air whistled—whoosh-palm-whoosh—aiming Raha's chest. The elder flowed like water through roots, sidestepping with impossible grace, his branch-arm sweeping low to hook Kairo's ankle.
Kairo tumbled into moss but rolled, springing up with vines snapping at his heels. "Good recovery," Raha nodded, gold eyes appraising. "But predict the counter."
They circled, loam churning underfoot. Kairo wove Vine Lash, golden threads extending like whips from his fingers, cracking toward Raha's guard. Thorns answered, parting for the elder as he countered with Earth Grasp: palm slamming soil, roots erupting to snare Kairo's legs.
Kairo's light flared instinctive, severing vines in golden burst but Raha was upon him, branch-fist grazing his shoulder. Pain bloomed, sharp yet teaching.
"Stronger!" Raha urged, voice steady. Kairo roared, channeling ritual harmony: golden Aura syncing emerald pulse. He spun into Spiral Bloom, arms whirling like storm-vines, unleashing a barrage that forced Raha back three steps, thorns shuddering—creak-retreat-creak. The elder smiled faintly, first crack in his bark. "There—the warrior awakens."
But power slipped as before. Mid-spin, silver flecks laced Kairo's gold—unbidden shadow twisting his strike wild. The bloom shattered, light-shards lashing thorns into frenzy, vines whipping both combatants. Raha dove, tackling Kairo clear as thorns calmed, trembling.
They rose panting, loam-dusted. Raha's grip firm on Kairo's arm, not anger, but echo of his sister's fall. "Strength without restraint devours, child," he murmured, eyes shadowed. "I learned it breaking roots I could not mend."
From the glade's edge, Elder Kimuri watched, his towering form half-hidden in vines, braids blooming fresh with approval. "He fights like Tembo rising," he rumbled later by the Repast fire, haring honeyed roots with Kairo. Suri giggled nearby, weaving a victory crown of glowberries—giggle-weave-giggle. "You're strong, Kairo! Like Raha in the old tales!"
Days blurred into fierce rhythm: dawn spars honing Thorn Parry, twilight drills syncing strikes to drumbeats—thud-strike-thud. Kairo grew—veins steady, form unyielding—yet silver flickered in unguarded moments, drawing Raha's quiet warnings.
Kimuri joined once, his Wind Barrier clashing Kairo's bloom in thunderous harmony—whoosh-clash-whoosh—laughing deep: ha-rumble-ha. "The boy roots well, brother. The Maw claims him."
Yet as the Harmony Chant neared, training uncovered unease. During a final spar, Kairo's silver surge resonated with the dune thrum, vines blackening briefly at edges Raha froze, gold eyes storming. "It stirs now," he whispered to Kimuri under starlight. "The fringes weaken. Shadows creep."
On chant's eve, Kairo stood Thorn Ring's heart, Aura blooming balanced warrior-light. Raha clasped his shoulder. "Tomorrow seals your roots in the Chant. But this strength will carry you beyond the Maw—to thunderous peaks where storms test true warriors." Kimuri's chants rose village-wide—calling all to prepare.