The worst part about training wasn't the running.
It wasn't the bruises.
It wasn't even the blisters on his feet or the constant ache in his muscles.
No. The worst part was this.
Sitting still.
"Focus," Kael ordered, pacing in front of him like a bored lion. "Empty your mind."
Aslan sat cross-legged on the cold ground, eyes closed, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned pale. His legs were already going numb, and his back screamed for mercy.
"Empty my mind?" Aslan muttered. "It's already empty. That's the problem."
A wooden stick cracked against his shoulder.
"Smart mouth. No discipline."
Aslan winced but kept still. He wasn't about to give his grandfather the satisfaction.
Kael's footsteps faded as he walked away. Only the distant crackle of the campfire remained, and the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs.
Find the flame, his grandfather had said. It's already inside you. The Heavenly Fire doesn't choose weaklings, but it demands control.
Aslan tried. He really did. But all he could focus on was the pulsing frustration under his skin. The doubts. The anger. The constant echo of the other kids' words.
Fatherless. Useless. Weak.
His fists tightened. His jaw clenched. The fire inside him… simmered.
And then—
Everything shifted.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, a spark appeared. Faint. Distant. But real.
It danced, blue and wild, pulsing like a heartbeat. His heartbeat.
Aslan reached for it.
The spark flared—then roared to life, consuming him in blue flame. It wasn't hot. It wasn't burning him.
It was him.
The doubts melted away. The anger dulled. All that remained was the steady thrum of power in his veins.
When Aslan opened his eyes, a small, steady blue flame hovered above his palm.
Kael stood nearby, arms crossed, a rare glint of approval in his eyes.
"About time."