The smell of toasted bread and something sweet drifted through the air, drawing Damon out of bed. For once, he didn't wake up sore or half-dead. His body felt lighter, steadier — almost like the mana inside him had finally stopped trying to tear him apart.
The kitchen was already alive with noise. Luke leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs while Imogen sat across from him, unimpressed. Cedric and Luna were mid-argument about whether mana could make food taste better.
When Damon walked in, Luke looked up and grinned.
"Well, look who survived the night."
"I was hoping you'd be gone," Damon said, grabbing a seat.
"Careful," Luke said, "you're starting to sound like one of us."
"Terrifying thought," Imogen muttered.
Luna smiled warmly. "Ignore them. Eat before we're late."
"Yeah," Cedric said. "He's already in a mood."
Damon blinked. "How can you tell?"
"He's breathing," Luke said.
The table laughed — even Imogen cracked a faint smile. Damon found himself grinning too. For once, it didn't feel like he was the outsider.
Then the door opened.
Lily stepped in, her expression calm but her tone sharp enough to cut through the chatter. "You're all still here?" she said. "We've been waiting outside for ages."
Everyone froze.
Luke whispered, "She means you've been waiting, right?"
Lily's gaze narrowed. "Does it matter?"
Imogen stood up immediately. "Run."
Chairs screeched as the group bolted for the door. Luke shouted over his shoulder, "Last one out's in trouble!"
Damon grabbed his bread and sprinted after them, crumbs trailing behind him.
By the time he reached the field, they were already lined up, breathing easy. Damon stumbled into place, panting.
Arthur stood waiting, arms crossed, the morning sun painting him in gold and shadow.
"Ah," he said annoyed , "the king has decided to grace us with his presence."
Damon straightened, still gasping. "I was—"
Arthur raised a hand. "Spare me. Today we spar. But first—" he pointed toward a tall oak at the far edge of the clearing "—show me what you learned."
Damon squinted. "That? That's half a mile away!"
Arthur's lips twitched. "Then aim carefully."
The others traded quiet looks — curious, almost expectant.
Arthur shifted into a stance, weight centered, one hand raised. "Feet steady. Shoulders loose. Mana begins in the chest. Gather it, guide it through the limbs, and release. Simple."
He glanced at Damon. "Now, you."
Damon swallowed, copying the posture. He drew in a slow breath, feeling for the current within him. It came easier now, pulsing beneath his ribs like a second heartbeat.
He let it flood his limbs — hot, alive, controlled.
Then he stepped forward and threw a punch.
The sound cracked the air.
The oak shuddered, splintered, and collapsed into a rain of wood and dust.
Everyone went still.
Luke's pebble dropped from his hand. "No way."
Imogen blinked. "That… that took us years."
Cedric exhaled, awed. "That wasn't chance."
Even Arthur hesitated for a fraction of a second before recovering. "Not bad," he said quietly. "Though next time, aim for precision before obliteration."
Damon stared at his fist, dumbfounded. "I didn't think it would actually work."
Arthur turned away, voice neutral again. "You'll think less and feel more. Balance comes from instinct, not fear."
"Was that—" Damon started. "Was that supposed to happen?"
"Technically, no," Luke muttered. "But I'm not complaining."
The rest of the day was chaos — organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless.
Arthur sent them running balance drills across the rolling logs over the stream. Luna glided across like she was born to it; Cedric moved with clean, steady grace. Imogen's steps barely made a sound. Luke turned it into a competition, sprinting ahead with a grin.
Damon fell in three times.
By the end of it, he was soaked, cold , and out of breath.
Then came the cliff jumps — leaping from rock to rock, balancing on narrow ledges while Arthur's voice echoed from below. "Control the current, don't fight it!"
When they finally stopped, the group was sweating and bruised, but smiling.
Arthur, of course, looked untouched. "Better," he said. "You haven't died yet. Progress."
"Wow," Damon said, "you're getting generous with compliments today."
Arthur didn't answer — which Damon decided to take as approval.
Arthur turned to the group. "Pairs. Cedric, Luke. Luna, observe. Imogen — with Damon."
Imogen raised an eyebrow. "You're serious?"
Arthur nodded. "He needs to learn from someone with control."
Luke stretched his arms. "Control? Or a death wish?"
Imogen ignored him and stepped forward, her expression unreadable. "Try not to make this painful. For you."
Damon rolled his shoulders. "No promises."
Arthur's hand dropped. "Begin."
Imogen moved first. Her speed was unreal — fluid and sharp. Damon barely dodged her first strike. She flowed like water, precise and fast, her footwork flawless.
Damon swung back, clumsy but strong, and for a second, she looked almost surprised. Then she smirked — and things got serious.
Her blows came faster, a blur of strikes that forced Damon onto the defensive. He blocked one, ducked another, stumbled back, then launched forward with a desperate burst of mana. His fist grazed her shoulder.
Imogen stumbled a step, eyes narrowing. "Not bad."
"Thanks," he said. "I've been practicing not dying."
Her smirk returned. "Keep it up."
She spun, sweeping his leg. He hit the dirt, rolled, came up again, their momentum building until it was impossible to tell who was attacking or defending. Dust rose in golden spirals around them.
For a moment, Damon managed to pin her down — both of them breathing hard, faces inches apart. Then she twisted, flipped him over, and pressed two fingers to his throat.
"Yield?"
He groaned. "You really enjoy this, don't you?"
"Immensely."
"Fine. I yield."
Arthur clapped once. "Enough. Good work."
The others relaxed. Luke whistled. "You lasted longer than I thought. She must be losing her touch."
Imogen threw him a glare sharp enough to silence him.
Arthur gave Damon a long look, as if trying to solve a riddle. "Each time, you grow faster. Stronger. Too fast."
Before Damon could ask what that meant, Arthur turned away. "That's all for today. Clean up and prepare for dinner."
The meal that night was the best yet — roasted fish, warm bread, and laughter that came easily. The air felt lighter. Luke and Cedric argued about who had better reflexes; Luna told a story about a failed training exercise that had left Arthur covered in soot. Even Imogen seemed relaxed, quietly amused by the chaos.
Damon listened, smiling. He'd never had this — not since before everything had gone wrong.
He waited until the noise had softened, then said, "Can I ask something?"
All eyes turned to him.
"Who are you guys, really?" he asked. "You train like soldiers, talk like monks, and blow up trees for fun. What exactly are we doing here?"
Luke's fork froze halfway to his mouth. "Wait, you didn't tell him?"
Arthur said nothing.
Imogen elbowed Luke sharply. "Don't."
"Ow! I was just—"
Lily, who had just entered, cut him off. "He'll find out soon enough," she said calmly. "For now, it's enough that he learns."
"That's not really an answer," Damon said.
Arthur stood suddenly. "Dinner's over. We leave at dawn."
The group went still.
Cedric leaned forward. "Leave? For where?"
Arthur's gaze flicked to cedric. "For what we came to this realm to find. Once we retrieve it, we return."
Lily's expression hardened. "You mean once you retrieve it. The rest of us were content to stay until—"
Arthur's voice cut through the room. "Enough. Everyone, to bed. Now."
Chairs scraped. The others hesitated but obeyed.
Damon remained seated. "You didn't answer my question."
Arthur met his gaze, unreadable. "No. I didn't."
And then he left.
Sleep didn't come easy. Damon lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind spinning.
Leaving. Returning. Realm. Artifact.
None of it made sense.
Eventually, he sighed and sat up. "Great. Can't sleep and now I've gotta pee."
The hallway was quiet. Moonlight spilled across the floor. When he reached the bathroom door, he found it locked.
"Seriously?" he muttered. He tried the handle again. No luck.
He sighed. "Fine."
Outside, the night was cool and still, the grass glistening under moonlight. He wandered toward the treeline, muttering, "Of all the things to fight me today, it's a bathroom door."
When he finished, he leaned back against a tree, staring up at the moon. It hung low and perfect, pale light cutting through the branches.
Then the air changed.
A shiver ran up his spine. The forest grew heavy — like something had drawn breath and was holding it.
"Hello?" he called softly.
A voice answered — faint, broken, almost familiar. "Mortal…"
Damon froze.
A figure clung to a nearby trunk, crouched low. Pale skin. Hollow eyes. Limbs too long, too sharp.
His blood turned to ice. It looked like the thing from the alley — the one he'd killed.
It tilted its head, studying him. "You… smell of him."
Damon's throat tightened. "What— what do you mean?"
The creature's grin stretched too far, teeth catching the moonlight. "He fell to you. Impossible… yet true."
It dropped silently from the branch, landing in the dirt.
"You carry his end upon you," it whispered. "Then you will do… for now."
Damon stepped back, pulse pounding. "Do for what?"
The thing's eyes flared, hollow and endless. "For balance."
And before he could move, it lunged — silent and sudden, faster than thought.
The wind roared, leaves scattered—
—and the world went black.