The training yard had become a second home.
Each morning, before the sun fully cleared the mountains, I made my way through the cold corridors to the wide, stone-flagged space where Torvin waited. Each day, he pushed me harder, demanded more, broke me down, and forced me to rebuild. The bruises had become a permanent part of my landscape, a map of lessons learned and progress made.
The ember had grown stronger. I could call it now at will and could shape it into a protective glow or a focused burst. It moved with me when I fought, an extension of my will rather than a desperate last resort. Torvin still knocked me down—he always would—but I rose faster now, fought longer, and learned quicker.
On this particular morning, something was different.
