The first light of dawn painted the training yard in pale gold as Alaric stood before the weathered post, his breath forming clouds in the chill morning air. The village of Lastlight still slept, its thatched roofs dark with dew, the only sounds the distant crowing of a rooster and the steady crunch of Crimson Wing's hooves as the stallion circled the perimeter, his massive wings folded tight against his flanks.
Alaric rolled his shoulders, feeling the stiffness in his muscles. His body was still foreign to him—too soft, too fragile compared to the unyielding stone he'd been for centuries. He flexed his fingers, studying the callouses that had formed over the past weeks. They were a start, but they weren't enough.
He struck the post.
Thud.
The impact sent a dull ache through his knuckles, the wood barely splintering. He frowned. Before his imprisonment, he could have shattered it with a single blow. Now, his body betrayed him at every turn.
Crimson Wing snorted, tossing his mane as if in disapproval.
"I know," Alaric muttered. "Patience was never my virtue."
The First Power: Bloodflow Focus
Harkin arrived as the sun crested the trees, his gnarled fingers wrapped around a steaming clay cup of spiced cider. The old priest moved with the careful grace of a man who knew exactly where each of his bones ached. He settled onto his usual stool, the wood groaning under his weight, and took a long sip before speaking.
"Your stance is wrong."
Alaric blinked. "What?"
"You're holding yourself like a statue." Harkin gestured with his cup, the scent of cinnamon and cloves lingering in the air. "Stone doesn't breathe. Stone doesn't flow. You're flesh now, Emperor. Act like it."
Alaric looked down at his feet. He had planted them wide, solid as a fortress wall. Old habits.
Harkin set his cup aside and rose with a grunt. "Bloodflow Focus isn't about brute force. It's about harmony." He placed a withered hand on Alaric's chest. "Breathe."
Alaric inhaled sharply.
"Deeper."
He tried again, forcing his lungs to expand fully, the cold air biting at his throat.
"Good. Now feel it." Harkin's fingers tapped against his sternum. "The blood follows the breath. The breath follows the will."
Alaric closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythm of his own pulse. At first, there was nothing but the steady thud of his heart. Then—
A whisper of warmth.
It started in his core, a slow ember kindling behind his ribs. As he breathed, it spread—down his arms, into his legs, coiling around his spine like liquid fire. His fingers tingled, his muscles humming with renewed strength.
Harkin stepped back. "Again."
Alaric struck.
CRACK.
This time, the post split down the middle, the upper half toppling into the dirt. Alaric stared at his fist, the skin unbroken, the bones unshaken.
Harkin smirked. "Better. But you're still thinking like a monument." He gestured to the shattered wood. "A wall stands until it falls. A river bends, but it never stops moving."
The Price of Power
By midday, Alaric's body screamed for rest. His arms trembled as he lifted another log onto the pile, his tunic soaked through with sweat. Crimson Wing nudged his shoulder, his dark eyes full of reproach.
"Don't look at me like that," Alaric grunted. "I've endured worse."
The stallion snorted, his breath warm against Alaric's neck.
Harkin chuckled from his perch atop a broken fence. "Even your horse knows you're pushing too hard."
Alaric wiped his brow, smearing dirt across his forehead. "I don't have time for caution."
"Caution?" Harkin shook his head. "This isn't about caution. It's about control." He tapped his temple. "Your body remembers, but your mind is still trapped in stone."
Alaric flexed his hands, watching the veins shift beneath his skin. He had spent centuries frozen, his thoughts circling like caged birds. Now, his body moved, but his mind lagged behind—always a breath too slow, a step out of sync.
Harkin tossed him a waterskin. "Rest. Then we try again."
The Second Power: Sanguine Dome
The moon hung heavy over Lastlight when Harkin led Alaric to the centre of the yard. The villagers had long since retreated to their homes, their windows dark. Only the crackle of the torches broke the silence, casting long, flickering shadows across the packed earth.
"Defence," Harkin said, rolling up his sleeves. "The art of turning a blade before it strikes."
Alaric nodded, bracing himself.
Harkin didn't move. "You're expecting me to attack."
"Aren't you?"
The old priest smiled. "The first lesson of the Dome isn't blocking. It's seeing." He pointed to Alaric's eyes. "Watch."
Harkin's hand twitched—a flicker too fast to follow—and suddenly a dagger was spinning toward Alaric's chest.
Alaric barely reacted in time. His palm slashed open, blood arcing through the air—
The dagger struck the half-formed Dome and skittered away, deflected but not stopped. A thin line of red opened on Alaric's arm.
Harkin tsked. "Too slow."
Alaric scowled. "I blocked it."
"You reacted." Harkin retrieved his dagger. "The Dome isn't a shield you raise when you see danger. It's a second skin. It breathes when you breathe. It moves before you move."
He threw again.
This time, Alaric didn't wait. He felt the shift in the air before Harkin's arm even tensed. His blood surged, the Dome flaring to life a heartbeat before the dagger left Harkin's fingers.
The blade struck—and shattered.
Harkin raised an eyebrow. "Progress."
The Breaking Point
Three weeks passed in a blur of blood and sweat. Alaric's hands were a mess of half-healed cuts, his body pushed to its limits. But with each passing day, the movements came easier. The blood remembered.
On the fourth week, he stood in the yard, his breath steady, his mind clear. Crimson Wing watched from the shadows, his ears pricked forward.
Harkin didn't speak. He simply attacked.
Fire and steel came at Alaric from all angles—daggers thrown, spells hurled, the old priest moving like a man half his age. But this time, Alaric didn't falter.
His blood moved before he did.
A dagger flew—the Dome flared, deflecting it mid-air.
Fire roared—his blood surged, dampening the flames before they could sear his skin.
Harkin lunged, his staff a blur—Alaric twisted, his body bending like a reed in the wind, his own blood guiding him.
When it was over, both men stood panting, the yard littered with broken weapons and scorch marks.
Harkin wiped his brow, his grin fierce. "There he is."
Alaric looked down at his hands. The cuts were already closing, his blood knitting itself back together. For the first time in centuries, he felt—
Alive.
The Next Step
That night, Alaric sat by the fire, turning his dagger over in his hands, the flames reflecting in the polished steel. Crimson Wing dozed beside him, his massive wings twitching as if dreaming of flight. Harkin settled onto the log across from him, his pipe trailing smoke into the darkness.
"You'll leave soon." It wasn't a question.
Alaric nodded. "The North won't wait. The longer I delay, the stronger they grow."
Harkin exhaled slowly, the embers in his pipe glowing. "And the villagers? The ones with the elemental gifts?"
Alaric sheathed his dagger and met the old man's gaze. "They'll need a teacher. Someone who can help them control what's inside them before it controls them."
A slow grin spread across Harkin's face. "So you're leaving me with an army of untrained fire-wielders, water-callers, earth-shapers and wind-walkers?"
Alaric stood, rolling his shoulders. "You've handled worse."
Harkin chuckled, tapping out his pipe. "True enough." He glanced toward the village, where faint glows of uncontrolled power flickered in the night—a child accidentally igniting a haystack, another summoning a gust that sent laundry fluttering into the trees. "I'll whip them into shape. You just focus on staying alive out there."
Alaric smirked. "No promises."
Crimson Wing stirred, stretching his legs as if sensing the coming journey.
Harkin nodded. "Then go. We'll hold things down here."
Alaric turned toward the northern road, where shadows stretched long and cold. Somewhere beyond those mountains, his enemies gathered.
Let them come.