Rumors spread like wildfire.
The day after our clash in the grove, the Naturals we'd beaten returned to the village bruised, dirty, and silent. They told no tale of loss, but the evidence clung to them—their split weapons, their limp gaits, the faint tremor in their voices when questioned.
Children whispered first.
"They lost."
"To who?"
"Outcasts. Hollows."
Then the mothers spoke of it at the wells, voices hushed yet sharp with amusement. By evening, the smiths and farmers repeated the story with knowing smirks. By dawn, it had reached the ears of the elders.
But the elders did not rage.
They summoned the defeated Naturals, questioned them, and listened. The boys stammered excuses, claiming distraction, overconfidence, carelessness. And the elders, sharp-eyed and ancient though they were, nodded slowly.
"Arrogance," one elder murmured. "This is good. Let them taste shame. Let them remember that strength without discipline is weakness."
The official tale was sealed: the Naturals had been humbled by their own foolishness. The "Hollows" who bested them were not threats, but tools unwittingly used by fate to cut away arrogance.
No suspicion. No punishment. Only whispers left to circle the village, each rumor a spark dancing on dry wood.
For Kael and me, it was both relief and opportunity.
The elders' dismissal meant safety. But the whispers meant eyes would linger, waiting to see what we were becoming.
So we withdrew again, deeper into our training, sharpening what we had begun.
Kael's power was wind, but I saw something in her style that she herself hadn't noticed. She was fast—fast enough to overwhelm, to slice, to overwhelm with sheer movement. But her attacks were still grounded in sight, in reflex.
"Kael," I told her one evening as we sat on the ridge, wind curling around us. "Your strength isn't just in controlling wind. It's in feeling it."
She frowned, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Feeling it?"
I nodded. "The air moves because of everything—branches, footsteps, even breath. If you can listen to it, truly listen, it will tell you more than sight ever could."
She tilted her head, skeptical. "Like how you predict people's moves?"
"Yes," I said, a small smile tugging at my lips. "But through your element. I sense intent through stillness. You can sense it through motion."
She spent days experimenting. At first, frustration consumed her—gusts swirling too wide, her focus snapping when she tried to read too much at once. But Kael was nothing if not stubborn.
Soon, she began to notice subtle things: the way the air shifted when I shifted my stance, the ripple of current when a sparring strike approached, the hollow left by a feint.
Weeks later, we sparred again. I lunged—her wind whispered my intent—and she moved before I struck, slipping past as though she had stolen the thought from my mind.
She laughed, exhilarated, wind swirling in harmony with her heartbeat. "It's like the world is speaking to me," she said, eyes blazing.
I nodded. "Now you're not just fighting with wind. You're fighting through it."
As for me, I turned to something more grounded.
The sword.
I had avoided it before. My telekinesis and prediction were enough, or so I thought. But I knew better now. Distance wasn't always possible, and in close combat, a weapon wasn't just steel—it was an extension of self.
So I stole moments watching the village warriors train. I studied their stances, memorized their strikes, the rise and fall of their blades. Then I practiced alone, hours spent under the moon, blade cutting arcs through the night air until sweat drenched my shirt.
At first, I was clumsy. Prediction helped, but my body lagged behind the vision in my mind. Cuts lacked weight. Blocks rattled my arms. My form was all thought, no instinct.
But slowly, something shifted. My foresight guided my body, matching movement to intent. A blade swung at me in drills, and before my eyes could track it, my sword was already there, intercepting the path.
And then came the true experiment: fusing my Weight into the blade.
It began as a subtle pressure—my strikes carrying an echo that jarred not just flesh, but spirit. When the edge descended, opponents staggered not from force alone but from the crushing weight on their minds, their resolve faltering mid-guard.
Each swing became more than steel—it was conviction, pressure, inevitability.
Kael called it terrifying.
I called it necessary.
We tested each other constantly.
Kael's wind-blades clashed against my sword, slicing currents exploding against invisible barriers I held with my will. She darted in with speed unnatural, her air whispering my moves before I made them. Sometimes she struck true, the sting of her wind-slices cutting my skin. Sometimes I broke through, my blade pressing her to the ground, her limbs heavy beneath my mental Weight.
Neither of us won easily. Neither of us wanted to.
It wasn't about victory anymore. It was about refinement. Each clash was whetstone and steel, sharpening us toward the inevitable future.
In the village, the whispers lingered.
"Those Hollows... they train too much."
"They fight like shadows in the woods."
"They're dangerous."
"They're different."
The elders dismissed it. "Let them play," they said. "Even broken tools can sharpen prideful hands."
But Kael and I knew the truth.
We weren't broken. We weren't tools.
We were becoming something else.
One night, after another endless spar, Kael and I collapsed on the ridge, sweat streaking our faces, the stars above cold and sharp.
She laughed softly, wind curling lazily around her. "Do you realize what we're doing, Sam?"
I lay back, staring at the sky. "Yes," I said. "We're preparing for the day the world finally notices."
She turned her head, eyes gleaming in the starlight. "And when it does?"
I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the blade at my side, the hum of energy in my mind.
"Then it won't see Hollows. It won't see Naturals. It'll see us."
Her wind stirred, soft but resolute. "Echoes."
I smiled faintly. "Echoes."
And in that moment, beneath the watchful stars, I knew: the whispers in the village were only the beginning. The true storm was still to come.