The three spirits spun once in the air above them, trembled as if tasting the room's warmth, and then—soft as a sigh—dove into the three young bodies. For an instant the air around each of them brightened: Lyra's skin warmed like embers, Daren's chest cooled as if he'd breathed in a river, and Elias felt tiny sparks lick the inside of his palm. When the light faded, nothing obvious had changed—only a faint aftertaste of power hummed under their skin.
The old man's face was unreadable as he watched them. He folded his hands together and said plainly, "I have subdued those three, and I forced them into you." His voice carried no apology; it was the flat fact of one who had done the work and owned the consequence. "Now test your new strength."
He rose without hurry. "Follow me."
They filed out behind him. The door at the back of the house opened onto a narrow yard where the wind whispered through low hedges. Laid out on the packed earth were a row of wooden training dummies—some small, some tall—many of them scarred and patched from years of practice. Several more lay scattered across the ground like soldiers waiting to be called.
"First," the old man said, "Lyra."
Lyra stepped forward as if the summons were a game. She lifted her hand, relaxed her shoulders, and a red light gathered above her palm—bright and impatient. In the next heartbeat, a spear of flame shot from her fingers. It punched through the wood of the nearest dummy with a hot crack and flared into a small, steady blaze where it met dry timber. Smoke rose in a thin column, and Lyra let out a breath that was half laugh and half triumph.
"Good," the old man said, approving. "Very good."
He pointed then toward Daren. "Next."
Daren advanced with the gravity of someone who takes orders seriously. He set his feet, closed his eyes a moment to gather balance, and a green shimmer formed — not leafy and soft but dense with motion. He thrust his palm forward, and a compact pulse of wind—tight, bladewise—shot out. It struck the dummy squarely and the wood exploded outward in a shower of splinters, the force severe enough to send fragments flying several paces. Daren's expression relaxed into a small, satisfied grin.
The old man placed a steadying hand on Elias's shoulder. "I believe you can do it," he said quietly.
Elias felt those words vibrate through him. For a second his chest filled with the easy conviction of possibility. Good. I'll be the strongest. I'll show them. The thought pumped courage into him.
He raised his hand.
A yellow light blinked into being above his palm—bright, sharp, fidgety as a struck wire. Elias focused with everything he had learned from watching Lyra and Daren, from watching the old man summon. He pushed outward.
Small yellow-streaked stones snapped off the ground like pebbles from a sling. They sailed toward the nearest dummy—fast, yes—but the shots were tiny. The pebbles kissed the wood and left only faint marks, not even a scratch that cut the surface deeply. The dummy stood stubbornly whole.
Lyra laughed aloud, sharp and delighted. "Ha! Little pebbles, huh? Is that all?"
Daren's disbelief showed in his wide eyes. He turned them from the battered dummy to Elias as though willing his friend to be better than the result. "No way," he said, incredulous. "That can't be right. You're holding back—there's got to be more."
Elias's cheeks flamed. He had expected at least one decisive hit, a visible dent—something that proved he was more than jokes and near-misses. Instead the pebbles clinked harmlessly. Shame rose hot in his throat and then a stubborn, humming resolve. This won't be the end of it, he thought. I'll get there.
The old man's face had shifted into an expression Elias had never seen—an unease that looked like doubt teeth-bared in the dark. He paced a small step, hand touching the broken dummy, as if trying to reconcile what he'd seen with what he'd expected.
"This is… strange," he murmured. "I have never been wrong in these matters. Never." His voice lost its certainty and became only a quiet accounting. "Yet if the red and green answered true, why—"
He did not finish. Instead he raised his hands and the air around him gathered a cold, pearly light. From the pale warmth between his fingers there crawled a new small thing: a spirit shaped like a little worm, elongated and plated, its color a pale white tinged with gold that flickered when he shifted it. It glowed like polished bone in candlelight.
The worm-spirit slithered through the air with a curious, almost hungry motion. It paused in front of Elias and turned its tiny head as if inspecting him; the faint gold along its back pulsed like a heartbeat.
The old man watched the little creature as if he had found a new variable in an old equation. He looked at Elias with a question in his eyes that had nothing to do with comfort.
Elias stood there under the pale gaze of the worm-spirit, his chest a slow drum. Around them the yard smelled of smoke, sap, and fresh-split wood. Everything seemed held on the edge of a hinge—right before a door opened onto something unexpected.