The morning arrived without color.

  Mist rested low against the ground, swallowing the edges of the world until distance lost its meaning. Eryn stood outside the small shelter they had abandoned before dawn, a wooden blade resting loosely in his hand. It was lighter than the one he used to train with. The Old Man had given it to him without explanation.

  The balance felt wrong.

  Or perhaps unfamiliar.

  He shifted his grip, testing the weight again. His fingers tightened, then loosened. The blade tilted slightly to the left.

  Behind him, dry leaves crunched under measured steps.

  “You are holding it like you expect it to betray you.”

  Eryn did not turn.

  “I am holding it so it doesn’t,” he replied.

  The Old Man stopped beside him. His gaze settled not on the blade, but on Eryn’s shoulders.

  “You believe control comes from force,” the Old Man said.

  Eryn adjusted his stance instinctively. “Is that wrong?”

  The Old Man did not answer immediately. Instead, he bent down, picking up a fallen branch. It was brittle, thin, and curved awkwardly near its middle.

  He placed it across his palm.

  “Break this.”

  Eryn frowned but reached forward. The branch snapped easily between his fingers.

  The Old Man nodded once, then picked up another branch. This one was thicker, but twisted in several directions.

  “Now this.”

  Eryn tried to break it the same way. The branch resisted. His grip tightened. He shifted his hands, applying more strength. The branch held firm until, with a sudden crack, it split unevenly, splinters cutting across his palm.

  Eryn hissed softly, pulling his hand back.

  The Old Man dropped the broken pieces.

  “You broke both,” he said. “But only one followed your intention.”

  Eryn wiped the small line of blood against his sleeve. “Strength is still strength.”

  The Old Man looked toward the mist.

  “No. One yielded. The other waited for you to fail.”

  Silence stretched between them. Somewhere deeper in the fog, a crow called once, then fell quiet.

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  Eryn looked down at the wooden blade again.

  “What does that have to do with holding a sword?”

  The Old Man stepped forward, taking the blade from Eryn’s hand. He held it loosely, almost carelessly, the tip angled slightly downward.

  “Most people think a blade is something you control,” he said. “But a blade is not alive. It does not obey. It simply follows whatever your body cannot hide.”

  He returned the weapon.

  Eryn accepted it, slower this time.

  “You tighten your grip because you fear losing it,” the Old Man continued. “But fear does not protect your weapon. It only reveals where your strike will come from.”

  Eryn shifted uncomfortably.

  “That makes no sense,” he muttered.

  The Old Man’s lips curved faintly. Not quite a smile. Something closer to remembering one.

  “Of course it doesn’t. Understanding usually arrives after you survive long enough to need it.”

  They began walking again, the mist parting reluctantly around them. The road beneath their feet had long since dissolved into uneven stone, patches of moss filling cracks that suggested this path had once been maintained by hands long gone.

  Eryn walked half a step behind.

  After several minutes, he spoke again.

  “You never told me why you are teaching me.”

  The Old Man did not slow.

  “I am not.”

  Eryn frowned. “Then why—”

  “You are walking beside me,” the Old Man said. “That is all.”

  The answer settled heavily in Eryn’s chest. He searched for frustration but found only a strange emptiness instead.

  They crossed a narrow ridge where the mist thinned. Below, the land opened into a valley scarred by blackened patches of earth. Burn marks stretched across the fields in uneven lines, as if the ground itself had tried to escape something and failed.

  Eryn stopped.

  “Was there a battle here?”

  The Old Man looked down without expression.

  “There was survival.”

  Eryn studied the valley. He could almost imagine shapes moving through the charred soil. Echoes of steel. The dull thud of bodies striking ground that no longer cared who fell upon it.

  “Who won?” Eryn asked quietly.

  “No one,” the Old Man replied. “That is why it ended.”

  They descended slowly. The air grew colder with each step. Ash still clung stubbornly to the soil despite seasons that should have buried it beneath new growth.

  Halfway down, the Old Man stopped.

  “Draw your blade.”

  Eryn hesitated, then obeyed.

  “There is nothing here,” he said.

  “Exactly.”

  The Old Man stepped back.

  “Strike.”

  Eryn blinked. “At what?”

  “Strike.”

  Eryn swallowed. He raised the wooden blade, remembering the countless movements he had practiced. His shoulders tensed. His stance settled. He stepped forward and swung.

  The strike cut cleanly through empty air.

  “Again,” the Old Man said.

  Eryn repeated the motion. And again. And again. Each strike felt heavier than the last, as if the absence of resistance drained more strength than any opponent could.

  After the tenth swing, his arms burned. By the twentieth, his breathing grew uneven. By the thirtieth, frustration crept into his muscles, tightening every movement.

  “Stop,” the Old Man said.

  Eryn lowered the blade, chest rising sharply.

  “That felt useless,” he said between breaths.

  “Yes,” the Old Man agreed.

  Eryn stared at him. “Then why—”

  “Because most of your enemies will feel exactly like that.”

  The words settled slowly.

  “You expect danger to announce itself,” the Old Man continued. “To stand before you. To raise its weapon so you can respond.”

  He gestured toward the empty valley.

  “But survival often demands that you strike before certainty exists.”

  Eryn looked at the scorched earth again.

  “You want me to fight things I cannot see?”

  The Old Man shook his head.

  “No. I want you to accept that hesitation is often born from the need to understand.”

  The mist began drifting back into the valley, curling around their feet like something searching for warmth it would never find.

  “Understanding is slow,” the Old Man said quietly. “The world is not.”

  Eryn tightened his grip on the wooden blade, then slowly loosened it again.

  The weight felt different now.

  Not lighter.

  But no longer unfamiliar.

  They stood there as the mist swallowed the valley, until even the burn marks faded beneath the grey.

  Eryn adjusted his stance without being told.

  The Old Man noticed.

  He said nothing.

  And for the first time, Eryn did not need him to.