The wind had teeth that morning.

  We rode north through the frost-wrapped woods, hooves crunching over ice-laced ground, the air sharp enough to draw blood with every breath. The trees swayed with old, creaking groans, brittle branches shedding flakes like slow rain.

  Darian Voss rode ahead of the group, silent and straight-backed, his horse picking its way across the uneven trail with the easy confidence of a trained war mount. He hadn’t said much since we left the keep.

  Didn’t need to.

  He wore his confidence the way some men wore armor — perfectly fitted, polished, unyielding.

  Ryel rode behind him, gaze fixed on Darian’s posture, his grip on the reins a little too tight. He’d been quiet too. Tense. But not afraid.

  Not anymore.

  That was new.

  Two months ago, he would’ve slouched in the saddle, lost in thought, too distracted to mark the tension in the trees or the way the shadows moved at the forest’s edge.

  Now? He was tracking.

  Eyes up. Shoulders square.

  Learning.

  Still not there — not yet — but close enough to make me proud.

  I said nothing.

  We reached the ridge by midmorning. Snow drifted down in lazy spirals, soft and soundless. A clearing opened at the forest’s edge — wide and flat, with a frozen stream cutting through the middle like a silver scar.

  It was there we found the tracks.

  Large. Deep. Patternless.

  "Not natural," Darian said immediately, crouching beside the imprint. "Weight’s wrong. Center of gravity shifts too abruptly. Bipedal gait, but inconsistent."

  Ryel knelt beside him. "You think it’s limping?"

  "No," Darian said without looking at him. "I think it wants us to think that."

  Ryel blinked, mouth half-open, then closed it.

  I watched from above, one hand resting lightly on Durendal’s hilt.

  "We're being led," I said. "Drawn into position."

  Darian stood, brushing snow from his gloves. "Agreed."

  He turned to me, expression unreadable.

  "Shall we follow?"

  I nodded once.

  The trail led into the hollow of the ridge — where the stream dipped into a ravine choked with roots and stone. Visibility dropped. The light dimmed. The wind stilled.

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  The trap closed around us like a closing fist.

  The creature lunged from the rock wall — a blur of limbs and chitin and dripping, black-veined muscle.

  It had once been human.

  Barely.

  The arms were too long. The jaw split too wide. The eyes — six of them — blinked independently, unblinking and wrong.

  It shrieked, and the very sound twisted in the air, as if space itself recoiled.

  Ryel moved first — clean and direct.

  His blade flashed up, angled low — a textbook opening slash from the Broken Moon’s second form. The creature veered to avoid it, but Ryel adjusted, dropping his shoulder and following through with a controlled backswing.

  The blade carved a line across the thing’s ribs — not deep, but solid.

  Blood hissed against the snow.

  He stepped back, breathing hard, blade up.

  Well done.

  Then Darian moved.

  If Ryel’s strike was studied and earnest, Darian’s was inevitable.

  He didn’t charge.

  He didn’t yell.

  He simply stepped into range, drew his blade — and cut.

  One clean, perfect arc — fast enough that the air cracked.

  The creature flinched, screamed—

  —and its arm dropped to the ground, twitching.

  Darian didn’t stop.

  He flowed forward, steps gliding like water, and struck again — a flick of the wrist, a twist of the shoulder, the barest adjustment.

  The blade kissed the beast’s thigh — severed tendons. It buckled.

  Ryel moved to follow up, slashing from the right — but the creature recovered just enough to lash out with a shriek of jagged claws.

  Ryel blocked, barely, steel clashing against bone. He stumbled back, feet sliding on ice.

  Darian stepped in again, pivoted, and drove his sword through the creature’s throat.

  It spasmed once.

  Twice.

  Then collapsed.

  Dead.

  Silence returned, broken only by the soft hiss of steam as black blood melted snow.

  Ryel stood off to the side, breathing hard, sword still raised. A shallow cut traced his left cheek.

  Darian wiped his blade clean, expression calm.

  "Unrefined, but sturdy," he said.

  Ryel blinked. "What?"

  "Your stance. Heavy. But your angles are true."

  Ryel said nothing.

  Just nodded, jaw tight.

  Darian turned to me, blade already sheathed.

  "Another of these and I’ll need a proper challenge," he said flatly.

  I didn’t respond.

  Just watched him — and then Ryel.

  The boy sheathed his own sword, movements stiff.

  He didn’t look at me.

  Didn’t need to.

  I saw it in the line of his shoulders. The way his hands tightened at his sides.

  He’d trained harder than ever. Grown stronger than I’d dared to hope.

  And he’d still been outshone.

  Crushed, even.

  Not by cruelty.

  Not by malice.

  But by the sheer, undeniable brilliance of someone better.

  We buried the creature deep in the ravine, surrounded it with a circle of runes drawn from memory and instinct. Not foolproof. But enough to stall corruption.

  The snow fell thicker by the time we rode back.

  Darian remained quiet, riding alone.

  Ryel rode at the back.

  I slowed my pace, letting the others pass.

  Eventually, Ryel matched me.

  "You did well," I said.

  "No, I didn’t," he said quietly.

  "You didn’t freeze. You struck clean. You read its movement."

  "I hesitated."

  "You learned."

  He didn’t respond.

  The silence stretched.

  Then:

  "Is that what I am?" he asked. "Someone who learns?"

  I looked at him. His face was tight, jaw clenched, eyes set ahead.

  Not asking for comfort.

  Asking for truth.

  "That’s all any of us are," I said. "Even the ones who make it look easy."

  "But he—"

  "Is what you’d be if you were raised with ten tutors, three private duelmasters, and a bloodline that breeds killers like stallions."

  Ryel blinked.

  "You think I can beat him?"

  "No."

  He stiffened.

  I didn’t soften the next words.

  "Not now. Not in a year. Maybe not ever."

  "But I can try?"

  "That’s the only thing worth doing."

  He nodded, slowly.

  The fire in him banked, not broken.

  Good.

  Better to be tempered than shattered.

  When we returned to the keep, I dismissed the others and lingered in the yard.

  The sky had darkened, clouds heavy with snow. The torches along the walls guttered in the wind.

  I stood there for a long time, hand resting on Durendal’s hilt, watching the gates.

  Not for enemies.

  For memories.

  I remembered what it felt like to stand beside men better than me. Stronger. Smarter. More blessed.

  I remembered how long it took me to stop trying to be them.

  And start trying to be enough.

  Ryel would learn that too.

  And when he did—

  Gods help the world.