Orien's cough began in the winter.
At first, it was nothing—just a dry rasp that interrupted his words during training or surfaced late at night when he thought Cael was asleep. He waved it away with a scoff, insisting it was the cold air of the hills or age finally catching up to him.
Cael didn't argue.
He watched.
The cough lingered. Then deepened. It stole Orien's breath during sparring, forced longer rests between exercises, shortened their morning runs. By spring, the man who had once risen before dawn now took longer to leave his bed.
Cael adjusted without being asked.
He cooked more. Cleaned more. Trained alone more.
Orien noticed everything.
"You don't have to slow down for me," he said one afternoon, voice hoarse as he leaned against the cottage wall. "You're past the point where I can hold you back."
Cael tightened his grip on the spear.
"I'm not slowing down," he replied evenly. "I'm just… efficient."
Orien smiled faintly at that. The smile didn't last.
The healer confirmed what Orien already suspected.
Mana scarring in the lungs. Old injuries, poorly treated, worsened by years of neglect and exposure. There were potions that could ease the pain, treatments that might buy time—but nothing that could reverse the damage.
Orien accepted the verdict without protest.
Cael listened in silence.
That night, he pushed his perception further than he had in months, observing Orien's circulation with careful restraint. The damage was unmistakable. Mana flowed unevenly, struggling through pathways that had hardened and fractured over decades.
There was nothing he could do.
That realization hurt more than he expected.
Training stopped entirely by midsummer.
Orien spent his days seated near the clearing, watching Cael practice alone. Sometimes he corrected posture with a gesture or a few quiet words. Sometimes he simply watched, eyes distant.
"You know," Orien said once, voice weak but amused, "I thought I'd be teaching you until you left me behind."
Cael paused mid-form. "You did."
Orien chuckled softly, then coughed—long and wet this time. When it passed, he exhaled slowly.
"Listen carefully," he said. "When I'm gone, don't stay here."
Cael turned to face him fully.
"This place did its job," Orien continued. "It kept you hidden. It kept you alive. But it's too small for what comes next."
Cael said nothing.
"You already know where you're headed," Orien added quietly. "Xyrus City. You won't say it, but it's written all over you."
Cael's jaw tightened.
"I won't go unprepared."
Orien smiled. "You never do."
The end came gently.
Too gently, perhaps.
Orien passed in his sleep one cool autumn morning, breath fading like a candle starved of air. There was no struggle, no final words—just stillness.
Cael found him at dawn.
He stood there for a long time, unmoving, listening for a breath that never came.
When he finally closed Orien's eyes, his hands did not shake.
He buried him beneath an old oak overlooking the clearing where they had trained. No marker. No inscription. Just stone and soil and memory.
Cael knelt there until the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the hills.
He did not cry.
Grief, he had learned, was not always loud.
The days that followed were quiet.
Cael sorted through what little Orien had left behind: spare clothes, old notes, a modest pouch of coins carefully hidden beneath the floorboards. Enough to travel. Enough to start over.
One item stood apart.
A ring.
Simple iron, worn smooth by time. Orien had never worn it, but had kept it wrapped in cloth, tucked away with care.
Cael turned it over in his hand, then slid it into his pouch.
He packed lightly.
Spear. Cloak. Supplies. Nothing unnecessary.
Before leaving, he stood once more at the edge of the clearing, eyes drifting toward the distant horizon.
Xyrus City lay far to the south.
A place of opportunity.
A place of danger.
A place where talent did not remain unnoticed for long.
Cael adjusted his grip on the spear and began to walk.
The road stretched ahead, winding through forests and fields that grew busier with each passing mile. Villages appeared more frequently now, travelers sharing the road—merchants, adventurers, families moving between towns.
Cael kept to himself.
He listened more than he spoke, learning the rhythms of the world beyond isolation. Mana beasts were becoming more active. Guilds were expanding their reach. The academy in Xyrus was accepting younger applicants than ever before.
The world was moving.
Just as he remembered it would.
One evening, as he camped beneath the open sky, Cael stared up at the stars and allowed himself a single, quiet thought.
I'm late—but not too late.
The road to Xyrus City awaited.
And with it, the beginning of everything that truly mattered.