River had entered his sleeplike state hoping to draw in enough essence to be useful for the coming day’s training. But at first light—he was jolted awake. Kamir stood over him like a shadow. “Up. Training begins now.” No warmth. No delay. Kamir saw comfort as a breeding ground for weakness. His goal was simple: burn it out of River, piece by piece. River rubbed his eyes and stumbled out of bed, body aching. He followed Kamir through the winding paths of the city, mind still fogged with exhaustion. Something felt... off. As if a presence had brushed against his thoughts in the night, subtle but undeniable. He shook it off. Probably just sleep-deprived paranoia—and the aftereffects of too little essence for too long. They passed through the outer gates and arrived at a strange building just beyond the city's edge. It stood alone, squat and wide, surrounded by nothing but bare red earth. River glanced around. No one else in sight. Kamir pushed open the doors without a word. River hesitated, then followed. Inside was a wide chamber with high ceilings and a single ring carved into the floor — a sparring arena. Wooden training weapons lined the walls, worn smooth by time and use. Kamir stepped into the ring and turned on his heel. “Physical first,” he said. He plucked two wooden swords off the wall and tossed one toward River without warning. The hilt of the sword hit River square in the chest and clattered to the floor. Kamir didn’t flinch. “Pick it up.” River bent down, fingers closing around the smooth, worn handle. He crouched low, mimicking the stance he’d seen knights use—knees bent, blade raised. He barely had time to blink. Kamir moved, fast and efficient.

  River never stood a chance. Kamir was on him before he could react. The flat of the wooden sword cracked against his face with a sharp snap. A burst of pain exploded across his cheek. Heat. Stinging. His vision blurred. “OW! what the hell?” River staggered back, nearly dropping the sword. Kamir didn’t flinch. His eyes were unreadable. “Again.” River’s pulse thundered in his ears. So this was how it was going to be. He barely had time to reset his stance before the next strike came. And the next. And the next.

  Within minutes, River’s face had swollen and his vision was half-gone. He hadn’t landed a single blow. He hadn’t even blocked one. Helplessness clawed at his chest, and frustration ballooned from within, like wildfire. He slipped the essence back into his eyes, letting the world sharpen — no longer dulled by exhaustion or pain.

  Kamir moved again. This time, River saw it, the shift in stance, the flicker of intention. He moved his sword upwards trying to block. But still, too slow. Kamir ducked beneath River’s outstretched arm, pivoted behind him, and drove the flat of the blade into his back. With a grunt, River hit the ground face-first. His back screamed with pain. Kamir’s voice was steady. Cold. “Now we train the mind.” That, at least, River thought he had some chance at. He’d dueled in the soul chamber before. He’d survived mental battles. He groaned and pushed himself upright, using the sword like a cane. Kamir tilted his head slightly. “I assume you know about willpower duels,” he said, tapping his temple. “Battles of the mind.” River nodded, trying to catch his breath. It sounded like soul dueling. Kamir offered the faintest nod of approval. “Good. Then protect your mind.” What does that mean? He didn’t get to finish the thought. A presence slammed into his consciousness — cold, invasive, merciless. Pain lanced through his skull as his thoughts turned against him, twisting and snarling into panic and doubt. Shadows of fear, grief, failure — all crashing down at once.

  And then it vanished. Kamir stood over him, arms crossed. “Again.” River barely had time to recover before the next wave came. Again, he was no match. His mental defenses shattered like glass. His body ached. Even thinking felt slow — like his mind had melted into wax.

  Finally, Kamir turned away. “Enough for now. Lunch.” He walked off without another word. River collapsed onto his back in the center of the ring, sweat pooling beneath him. Every limb shook. At this point, it was less like training and more like something he had to survive. This was nothing like the academy.

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  And yet... he forced himself to his feet. Shaky, aching, but upright. He needed to find Amalia and Albert. He needed to remember why he was still standing at all.

  —

  He walked back to the house where he and the others were staying, his thoughts wandering. How could he improve? How could he keep from falling behind again? When he stepped inside, he found Albert and Amalia seated at the table, quietly eating and talking. Their voices died down the moment they saw him. Pity flickered in their eyes as they took in his appearance, bruised, battered, and clearly worn thin.

  He stepped into the kitchen, every part of him aching. He couldn’t hold it in anymore. The training had drained him—not just physically, but mentally. Whatever defenses he’d put up around his grief were gone now, stripped away. He slumped into the seat next to them. Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. “Sorry,” he whispered, barely audible. Amalia placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” she said softly. “We chose to come.” Her voice tightened slightly. “Realize... you’re not the only one who feels the pain. Or the guilt.” River blinked, surprised. He hadn’t thought of it that way. In his mind, the blame had been his alone. The responsibility his burden to carry. But hearing it said aloud... it shook something loose inside him. They were all grieving. All hurting. Carrying it alone, shouldering all of it, would only dishonor his friend’s memory. Callum had made his own choice. And River had to respect that. He wiped at his eyes and cleared his throat. “Thanks,” he murmured. Both Albert and Amalia gave him a weak smile, their expressions mirroring his own. Grief. Weariness. Hope. They sat there for a while, talking. Remembering Callum. Laughing, even — just a little. It helped. The weight on their shoulders didn’t vanish, but it grew a little easier to carry. Then the door opened. Kamir stepped inside, his expression unreadable. “Training. All of you. Now.” Everyone glanced at each other. Clearly, Albert and Amalia hadn’t expected it either. Still, none of them argued.

  Soon, they were back at the same training grounds where River had suffered that morning. This time, Kamir only watched—eyes sharp, tracking every movement as he barked orders.

  “First, sparring. Amalia. Albert. Begin.”

  River stepped aside as the two took their positions. He hadn’t expected much, but as the bout began, he realized just how much they’d improved. Albert was broad and heavy-footed, but extremely strong. Amalia, by contrast, moved like quicksilver: light, fast, hard to pin down. She struck first, sword flashing toward Albert’s chest. He stepped back and deflected the blow, pushing forward with his weight, trying to throw her off balance. But Amalia ducked low, twisting beneath his guard. In a blink, her blade was pressed lightly against Albert’s neck. River blinked. That was... good. A tight knot formed in his stomach. Watching them — watching her—stirred something in him. Not resentment. Not really. But envy. He wanted to be at that level. To move like that.

  Kamir gave a short nod. “River. Albert.” Amalia tossed him the training sword, and River caught it awkwardly. He stepped into the ring, trying to remember how she’d moved, how she’d slipped under Albert’s strike. He’d do the same. Fast. Low. He charged. Too slow. Albert didn’t even flinch. He turned, planted his feet, and swatted River’s side with the flat of his blade.

  Pain bloomed. The breath left River’s lungs as he collapsed onto the mat, gasping. Kamir grunted—low and disapproving. River tried to convince himself it was because he’d already trained that morning. He was tired. Spent.

  But deep down, he knew the truth.

  He wasn’t just tired. He wasn’t good enough.

  But one day, he would be.