Bright didn't sleep.
The cots around him sagged with exhausted soldiers, but his mind stayed wired — replaying the same truth over and over:
Power is useless if someone stronger takes it from you.
Two dull patrol blades lay beside his cot. Chipped, uneven, standard issue — gear meant for men expected to die before they wore them down.
He waited until the sky outside the tent turned from black to bruised gray. No watchers. No bunkmates awake. He placed the blades together, the metal still cold from the night.
His pulse thumped once.
That strange pull in his core — quiet and hungry — stirred to life.
He pressed the blades together.
There was no light. No sound. Just a shiver in the metal and a pulse of heat through his fingers. The dull iron seemed to melt at the seam, edges grinding into each other with a pressure he couldn't describe.
Then it was done.
Two blades had become one — thicker, slightly warped, still dull but heavier and more durable.
He inspected it. The fusion wasn't perfect, but it would survive hits that standard issue wouldn't.
More importantly:
No one else saw. And no one else would.
Secrecy wasn't a preference in Grimhollow — it was survival law. Anyone who revealed their worth before they could defend it was stripped of everything… or ended.
He wiped the fused blade clean and wrapped the hilt in worn cloth to hide the uneven join. To anyone else, it would look like a reforged salvage piece.
That was enough.
Now came the harder truth — his body was nowhere near strong enough to handle more.
Fusion strained him. His forearms ached. His breath still felt shallow. If he wanted to use his talent again — and live through it — he'd need to build muscle and control.
Which meant training.
Which meant someone who knew how to survive without gifts.
Which meant Duncan.
The camp was just waking when Bright stepped outside. Torchlight sputtered along the barrier walls, casting long, skeletal shadows. Smiths were stoking the first forges. Sergeants barked at half-asleep recruits.
Duncan was where Bright expected him — kneeling beside a splintered spearshaft, binding it with cord like every weapon mattered.
He was talentless, coreless, and somehow still alive.
Bright approached. Duncan didn't look up immediately, only spoke once he'd tied off the cord.
"You're limping."
Bright paused. "Everyone is."
Duncan grunted.
Bright stood there, silent. Duncan finally looked up, squinting. "You need something."
"I need to train," Bright said flatly. "You've lasted this long without a core or talent. Show me how."
Duncan studied him, not impressed — just measuring.
"Why?" he asked.
"To live longer than most."
That, at least, was an acceptable answer.
"Fine," Duncan said. "But you do exactly what I tell you, and you don't complain when it hurts."
"I won't."
Duncan stood, brushing dust from his hands. "You got a weapon?"
Bright showed the wrapped blade without ceremony. Duncan barely glanced at it.
"Scavenged?"
"Found it in a junk pile and cleaned it," Bright lied without blinking.
Duncan accepted that with a shrug. In Grimhollow, if something wasn't stolen, it probably wasn't worth taking.
"Then we start now," Duncan said. "Before the yard fills."
There were no greetings, no warm-up drills, no easing in.
Duncan began with stances.
Wide, low, punishing holds that made Bright's thighs burn within minutes.
Then came strikes — fists, elbows, knees. Duncan corrected only when Bright's form threatened to collapse entirely.
"Your balance is trash."
"Keep your chin down."
"Hit like you're trying to break something, not wake it."
When Bright's arms started to numb, Duncan shoved a weighted rod into his hands.
"Swing until your breath burns."
He did.
When he slowed, Duncan struck him in the ribs with a blunt training staff.
"You think monsters wait for you to catch your breath?"
Bright got back up without speaking.
They went on until the sun crested the eastern barricade and torchlight faded. Sweat streaked dirt down Bright's neck. His knuckles were raw, and his shoulders trembled each time he exhaled.
Finally, Duncan stepped back.
"You'll feel this tomorrow."
"I'll be here tomorrow," Bright answered.
Duncan didn't praise him — he just nodded once and walked away to repair another weapon.
Bright remained alone in the sparring pit, staring at the wrapped blade resting against a crate. His hands still buzzed from the earlier fusion, nerves strained from both power and training.
He didn't know when the next patrol call would come.
He didn't know who from his bunk would still be breathing in a week.
But now he had two things he hadn't yesterday:
A stronger weapon no one could trace.
And a way to make sure his body could handle what his soul demanded.
In Grimhollow, the loud died first.
The hidden survived.
And Bright intended to stay hidden until the day no one could touch him.