The dawn that followed was red as rust.
In Zerune, the color of morning was never blue — the sun rose through layers of volcanic haze, turning the horizon into a smear of molten gold. Beneath it, the training terraces shimmered with heat, each one carved into the city's outer cliffs. The air there smelled of scorched stone and sweat — a place where mortals learned to give rhythm to violence.
Iri'okan stood waiting, arms crossed, his sword planted in the ground beside him. His armor was minimal — bands of hardened ash-steel along the shoulders, ritual scars exposed across his chest, each one a sigil of victory or loss. His eyes tracked Nakala the way a hawk measures wind.
> "Serah teaches you to listen," he said as she approached. "I teach you to speak."
Nakala wiped the sleep from her eyes. "With a blade?"
"With your rhythm." He drew his sword in one fluid motion. The metal sang — not a hum like Serah's, but a harsh, deliberate rasp. "Histinak without form is wind in a jar. Power without structure devours the fool who wields it."
She nodded, remembering the violet fire that had nearly consumed her yesterday. The goddess stirred again, faintly amused.
Let the jar break, whispered Esh'ra. Then see what breath remains.
Iri'okan motioned to the stone ring at the terrace center. "Enter."
When she did, the air tightened — the runes lining the circle flared faintly, creating a dome of energy that held the sound of their steps. Every heartbeat was echoed back, slightly delayed, as if the space itself were listening.
Iri'okan raised his blade. "Histinak flows from the body's three centers — Breath, Blood, and Bone. Each speaks a different language."
He struck the ground once — a pulse of red energy radiated outward like ripples across glass. "Breath gives rhythm."
A second strike — sharper, faster. "Blood gives memory."
Then a third — so quiet she barely saw him move. "And Bone gives weight."
Nakala felt each pulse roll through her differently. Breath lifted her chest, Blood quickened her veins, Bone grounded her feet. The three together created something like balance — imperfect, but alive.
"Again," he said.
She mirrored his stance, letting her breathing steady. The blade hummed faintly, catching the sound of her pulse. She tried to let the motion come naturally — not from thought, but from that silent center Serah had shown her. The first swing cut cleanly through the air, the second wavered, the third nearly slipped.
Iri'okan caught her wrist before she stumbled. His grip was iron, his tone calm but absolute.
> "You think too loudly. The rhythm is not a song to remember — it's the silence between beats."
She glared, frustrated. "Easy to say when you've trained for decades."
He smirked. "I trained for survival, not grace. Same as you will."
He released her hand, stepping back. "Serah's path will teach you to hear the world. Mine will teach you to make the world hear you back. Only when both meet will your Histinak stop tearing itself apart."
The air between them thrummed — her pulse against his, two rhythms clashing but not yet blending. She could feel something older beneath his presence too, a buried sorrow that smelled faintly of smoke and rain.
"Who trained you?" she asked.
He looked toward the rising sun, eyes distant. "No one who survived long enough to matter."
Then he turned, walking toward the stairway leading back to the upper terraces. "You'll spar with me at dusk. Bring what you've learned from Serah. And your goddess — if she dares."
When he was gone, Nakala remained in the circle, breathing slowly. The dome's echo faded, leaving only her heartbeat and the faint hum of the city below. For a moment, her blade pulsed with violet light again — faint, uncontrolled, but undeniably hers.
Breath. Blood. Bone.
The words repeated like a mantra, sinking into her until the goddess's voice rose softly beneath them.
You will learn their languages, child. And when you do — you will unmake their grammar.