Date: April 9, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The "Inner Courtyard" training ground in the Agrim estate was strikingly different from the dusty, tar-smelling "Onion Yard" of the city guard. There were no random people, no shouts of merchants, no bustle here. The yard was paved with perfectly fitted slabs of gray granite, on which, after decades of training, not a single crack remained—it was rumored the stones were enchanted with the Earth Spirit of one of the Family's old masters. The air here was dry and clean, and the silence was broken only by the steady, dry thud of training weapons and the heavy breathing of the few present.
When Dur and Maël stepped onto the yard, a group of six people was already there. They were young recruits, dressed in the same gray jackets as Dur, but on their faces was not just discipline, but a kind of arrogant calm. They were the "Accepted"—those who had voluntarily joined the Agrim family, passed a rigorous selection, and were now vying for the right to officially bear the family name.
In the center of the yard stood a man who seemed cast from darkened bronze. Master Koch. He was short, wiry, with a completely bald head and a face crossed by a thin scar from temple to chin. His eyes, devoid of lashes, looked at the world with frightening, almost mechanical attentiveness. He wore no armor—only a simple linen shirt, cinched by a wide leather belt from which hung a short wooden rod.
"Fall in," Koch's voice was quiet, but it cut through the air like a razor.
Maël instantly took a place at the end of the line, assuming the impeccable stance taught in the capital. Dur, after a second's hesitation, stood beside him. He felt the sidelong glances of the recruits—to them, he was the "savage" brought here by Sarim himself.
Koch slowly walked along the line. When he stopped before Dur, the youth felt a strange pressure in his chest. The air around Master Koch seemed to become thicker, heavier.
"Horn's tracker," Koch pronounced this like a diagnosis. "Your bow is a crutch. You're used to killing from a distance, hiding in the bushes. In the forest, you're a hunter. Here, you're material. And material must pass through fire and hammer before it becomes a blade."
Koch suddenly swung his rod. The movement was so fast that Dur barely saw a blurred shadow. Hunter's instincts kicked in: Dur sharply jerked his head, and the rod only grazed his ear.
"Too much movement," Koch noted coldly. "You jump like a frightened hare. In the Agrim family, we don't jump. We stand."
Master Koch stepped back, and around him suddenly flared a dull, bluish glow. His Spirit was of the type—**"Spirit of Leaden Fetters."** Dur felt his legs instantly fill with lead, his arms becoming impossibly heavy. The pressure zone covered the entire yard. It was similar to the Spirit of that bruiser Korg from Black Grove, but an order of magnitude finer, more concentrated, and more professional.
"Your task for the first hour is simply to stand," Koch announced. "Anyone who falls or touches the ground with a knee will go without dinner and will clean the stables. Maël, that includes you. Uncle didn't ask me to be gentle."
Maël, despite the pressure, continued to smile his signature, slightly sly smile. Dur noticed his friend beginning to slowly change his posture: he slightly turned his feet, shifted his weight to the outer edges of his soles, and began breathing very deeply and slowly. His Spirit of Adaptability worked at its limit, adjusting his internal body pressure to Koch's external pressure.
For Dur, this became a true trial. He had no Spirit to ease the burden. All he had were his muscles, hardened by running through the forest, and his will. He felt sweat stinging his eyes, his knees trembling under the invisible weight. Every second felt like a minute.
"Look at me, savage," Koch whispered as he passed. "You're fighting the power. Don't fight. Become part of it. The earth doesn't fight the mountain; it holds it."
Dur closed his eyes. He remembered Torm. Remembered sitting in ambush for hours, motionless, while frost covered his eyelashes. There, too, was a weight—the weight of cold and expectation. He tried to relax the muscles not involved in maintaining balance. He directed all his attention to his feet, imagining he was not a man, but the root of an ancient oak, plunging deep into the granite slabs.
After forty minutes, two recruits collapsed to their knees, breathing heavily. Koch didn't even glance at them—they had simply fallen out of his circle of interest. Dur and Maël stood. Maël's face had gone white, a thin trickle of blood running from his nose—the price of adapting to such a powerful Spirit was high. Dur felt his vision blurring, but inside him, that same stubbornness that had once made him take the first step towards the Swift Creek was awakening.
Finally, the bluish glow faded. The pressure vanished so suddenly that Dur nearly pitched forward from the inertia of his own effort.
"Enough," Koch tucked the rod behind his belt. "For the first time… acceptable. Maël, your Spirit is a curious tool, but you use it as a shield to hide from pain. That's a mistake. Pain is your best teacher. Dur… you are surprisingly sturdy for an ordinary man. But remember: in the real world, beyond the walls of this little Ligra, there are beings whose pressure could crush your bones before you could draw your bowstring."
Master Koch gestured to a servant who brought a tray of wooden swords.
"Now—technique. Dur, forget the knife. You will learn the long blade. In the Agrim formation, a knife is for butchering carcasses. A warrior speaks the language of steel that reaches the enemy's heart before they feel your breath."
The rest of the day passed in exhausting exercises. Koch didn't teach them fancy feints. He made them perform one single strike—a vertical descending cut—thousands of times. Again and again. By noon, Dur's arms were numb, and his palms, despite calluses, were rubbed raw against the grip's wrapping.
During breaks, as they greedily drank water from a fountain, Maël whispered to Dur:
"He's testing our limits. In the Agrim family, they believe in the 'Law of Breakthrough.' Strength only grows when you're on the verge of death or complete exhaustion. Koch will keep us on that edge every single day."
"I don't mind," Dur breathed, wiping his face with cold water. "I feel myself becoming heavier. Not in weight, but… in essence."
Evening found them in the estate's library. After physical torture, Sarim demanded mental work from them. For Dur, this was harder than standing under Koch's press. Maps, ledgers, Family history, geography of the Eastern lands… He looked at the parchments, and the letters swam before his eyes.
Maël, however, was in his element here. He analyzed data with incredible speed, explaining the complex intricacies of Agrim politics to Dur.
"Look, Dur. Ligra is just a gateway. If Alvost breaks through here, they'll gain access to three of the Family's southern granaries. Sarim isn't nervous about bandits; he's nervous because the bandits are reconnaissance. The Cursed Tribe my uncle mentioned… it's a legend of our land. Creatures who traded their humanity for a twisted form of Spirit power. If they've truly returned, then Ligra will be the first anvil struck by their hammer."
Dur listened to his friend, and a new anxiety was born in his heart. His personal dream—to find his friends and build a Better World—had suddenly collided with the scale of a global threat. He understood Sarim's words: until he became a force capable of stopping even one "Cursed," his dreams were just dust under the boots of legions.
At night, returning to his room, Dur stopped by the window. Ligra slept under the protection of its walls. He looked east. Somewhere out there were Kaedan, Ulvia, and Gil. Were they as wounded as he was? Were they training as fiercely?
"I will become stronger," Dur whispered into the night silence. "For our oath. So that this city, and all cities beyond it, truly become the world one wouldn't be ashamed to give their life for."
He didn't yet know that tomorrow Koch had prepared a sparring session for them with the best recruits of the "Inner Circle," and that in that fight, he would have to peer for the first time into the abyss of his own sleeping Spirit. But for now… for now, he simply lay down on the bed, and sleep, heavy and bottomless as the ocean from his nightmares, instantly consumed him.