Kael opened his eyes. His body protested at once—arms heavy, shoulders stiff, legs aching as if they belonged to someone else. The bruises from yesterday’s drills throbbed dully, and the cut on his forearm had scabbed into a thin, ugly line.

  For a moment, he considered staying down, clinging to the thin blanket the refugees had given him. But then he remembered Orin’s voice, calm yet immovable: The sword is patient, but the world is not.

  So Kael forced himself upright, breath hissing through his teeth. The camp was quiet, most of the refugees still curled in uneasy sleep. Only the faint crackle of the fire and the distant chatter of birds filled the morning.

  And Orin.

  The old man was already there, as Kael knew he would be—standing in the clearing, staff planted beside him, blade resting loosely in one hand. He did not look tired. He never seemed to. The years carved into his face carried no weight in his stance.

  “You’re late,” Orin said without looking, though Kael knew he must have heard him stir from across the camp.

  Kael rubbed his sore eyes. “It’s barely dawn.”

  “Dawn waits for no one,” Orin replied. “Pick up your sword.”

  Kael glanced at the weapon lying nearby, the plain steel catching the morning light. He lifted it, the weight once again foreign and familiar all at once. His grip trembled slightly, but he tightened his hold, forcing the uncertainty down.

  “Good,” Orin said. “Now we begin.”

  ---

  The drills started simple. Stance, guard, basic strikes. Orin moved with slow, deliberate precision, his blade gliding through the air as though it were part of him. Kael followed, mimicking each swing, each shift of the foot, each angle of the wrist.

  But his body was slow. His arms shook from fatigue, his back ached with every bend. Sweat already ran down his temple, stinging his good eye.

  “Again,” Orin commanded.

  Kael swung. The blade wavered.

  “Again.”

  He adjusted and swung. The air hissed.

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  “Again.”

  Hours seemed to pass in that endless rhythm—strike, block, adjust. Orin corrected with the smallest touches, pushing Kael’s elbow higher, straightening his spine, tightening his grip. Each correction cut deeper into Kael’s pride.

  Finally, he snapped. “It’s never enough for you, is it?” The words spilled, ragged with frustration. “I can’t even hold the sword without you saying it’s wrong.”

  Orin stopped. His blade lowered, but his eyes fixed on Kael, sharp and steady. “Do you think the Wardens will care how tired you are? Do you think a wolf will pause when your stance falters? The sword does not forgive mistakes, Kael. That is why I do not forgive them either.”

  Kael’s jaw clenched. His chest heaved, but he swallowed his anger, forcing himself to raise the blade again.

  Orin watched, silent for a long breath, then nodded once. “Good. Anger is a fire. Let it burn, but do not let it blind you. Now—again.”

  ---

  By midmorning, Orin shifted the drills. No longer simple strikes, but transitions—attack into defense, defense into counter. He struck lightly at Kael, forcing him to parry, to adjust, to recover after each block.

  Kael staggered, the sword heavy as iron in his arms. He blocked one strike but left his side open. Orin’s blade tapped his ribs.

  “Dead,” Orin said flatly.

  Again.

  Kael tried to push forward, forcing an attack. Orin sidestepped, blade pressing to Kael’s back.

  “Dead again.”

  Kael cursed, sweat dripping into his mouth. He lunged with all his strength, desperate to land a hit, but Orin’s blade flicked his aside with contemptuous ease.

  “You fight like fire,” Orin said, knocking him back with a sharp parry. “Bright, hot, uncontrolled. But fire consumes itself long before the enemy falls.”

  Kael fell to one knee, chest heaving, vision swimming. His ruined eye throbbed, burning faintly in its blindness, a cruel reminder of what little power he still held.

  Orin stood above him, unshaken. “Stand.”

  Kael grit his teeth and rose. His legs shook. His arms felt like lead. But he raised the sword again.

  For the first time, Orin’s mouth twitched into something like approval. “Good. Now you begin to understand.”

  ---

  The sparring grew harsher. Orin struck faster, harder, testing Kael’s reactions. Kael stumbled, blocked, staggered, but little by little he adjusted. His grip steadied. His feet learned where to fall. His blade began to move not as a foreign weight, but as something he could almost trust.

  Once, he managed to deflect Orin’s strike and swing back. The blade cut only air, but Orin’s eyebrow rose.

  “Better,” he said. “But your follow-through is too slow. Had that been real, your enemy would already have gutted you.”

  Kael spat into the dirt, frustration mounting, but he tried again. His body screamed at him to stop, but he forced it forward, one strike after another, one block after another.

  When he missed, Orin corrected him. When he faltered, Orin pressed harder. There was no mercy in the training, no comfort—only steel and the weight of expectation.

  At last, Kael collapsed into the dirt, gasping, sword trembling in his grip. His whole body burned, every muscle alive with pain.

  Orin circled him once, slow, like a wolf testing prey. Then he stopped, blade angled low. “Up.”

  Kael groaned. “I… I can’t.”

  “You can,” Orin said, voice flat as stone. “Or you die. Those are your only choices.”

  Kael’s breath rattled in his chest, but something in Orin’s voice dragged him upright. His arms shook, his knees buckled, but he stood.

  And when Orin struck again, Kael blocked. Weak, sloppy—but he blocked.

  ---

  The hours stretched on. By the time the sun hung high overhead, Kael’s body was a tapestry of aches and bruises. His breaths came ragged, his grip nearly failing. Yet he swung, blocked, swung again, each motion carved deeper into his bones.

  Finally, Orin stepped back. His blade lowered, his eyes unreadable.

  “You will not win today,” he said. “Nor tomorrow. Perhaps not for years. But each strike you make brings you closer.”

  Kael wiped sweat from his brow, his chest still heaving. “It feels… impossible.”

  Orin shook his head. “The sword is patient. You are not. That is the difference.”

  He walked closer, placing the tip of his blade lightly against Kael’s chest, right above his heart. Not a threat—an instruction.

  “Until you can stand against me for more than a breath,” Orin said, voice quiet but unyielding, “you are not ready. But you will be.”

  Kael swallowed hard, his body trembling, but in his chest something stirred—something fierce, stubborn, alive. He met Orin’s gaze, and for the first time, he believed it.

  ---

  That night, long after the drills ended, Kael lay down, the sword beside him. His body was broken with exhaustion, but his mind burned with Orin’s words. The sword is patient.

  And though he doubted, though he was hurt, and though he feared—he knew he would rise again tomorrow.

  Because the blade demanded it.