Weapons lay scattered across the scorched stone floor. The training hall reeked of old ash and sweat. Deep black burns marred the rock, each one a memory of failure.
Kael spun in a slow, controlled arc, his long hair whipping behind him like a flaming banner. Veinfire flickered to life around his hands—cool, silver tongues dancing with restraint. He exhaled sharply, driving his palm forward.
Silver fangs snapped into existence around the pillar, glinting like moonlight on blade-edges.
Come on…
The instant they struck, the fangs shattered. A cone of flame burst from the point of contact, consuming the stone in a brief, hungry roar.
Kael landed lightly on his feet, shoulders rising as he drew a long breath. He planted his left hand over his heart, posture straightening into meditative form. Cold mist curled from his lips.
The veinfire swirled again, tighter this time. Controlled. He stepped in—strike—and ice bloomed from his palm like frostbite crawling across glass. It laced the air, spiderweb-thin, beautiful.
Still not enough.
His fingers curled into a claw. Breaths came faster. His stance narrowed. Feet poised. Wrists flicked in tight, precise cuts through the air—drawing veinfire like thread on a needle.
Smaller now. Weaker. Flickering like a dying lantern.
Kael hesitated. Fangs didn't form this time.
He let out a sharp breath and dropped to the floor, chest heaving. Sweat clung to his skin. His hands trembled faintly as the silver light faded.
He stared at the pillar, nearly blackened from months of strikes. A new scorch mark bled into the others.
"After all this time this is as far as I can go," he muttered.
Two months. Two full months of training until his knuckles bled and the floor felt more familiar than his own bed. He only stopped to eat, drink, sleep just enough to survive.
He had mastered the forms. Each one etched into his bones now. The Echo Guard had taken two weeks. Every stance. Every breath. Drilled, refined, locked in.
But chaining them together? That was different. That was alive—messy, unpredictable, like trying to thread a storm through a needle.
He rubbed his forearm, remembering the first time he attempted Serpentine Flow. The form had been imperfect, like child's play compared to now.
He'd used too much veinfire. Too fast. Not enough control.
He could manage two serpentine forms in a row. Barely. A small victory, but hollow. The Slicing Gale was easier—six crescent arcs before fatigue dragged him down. It was cleaner, lighter on fuel.
Every form had a weight to it. Some used a lot more veinfire compared to others. Slicing Gale used the least, and the Serpentine Flow used more.
He had reached his training limit for now. It felt like something was missing for him to progress.
His hair had grown, bangs falling into his eyes. He brushed them aside and stared at his hands.
"They've practiced enough," he whispered.
He had gotten stronger, but he couldn't stop now.
He sighed. He'd been cut off from the world long enough. He didn't ask before, but now… he yearned to leave.
---
Thorne stood at the doorway, watching Kael. He had seen the boy's determination—unnatural, unrelenting. He had done enough. More than enough. Even managed to chain the technique—something that even the prodigies of Asvaran needed a year to attempt.
The kid was pushing himself too hard. Thorne should have told him to slow down. But he hadn't.
He sighed. It's all for the greater good.
Kael sat cross-legged on the floor, facing the training pillar. He hadn't noticed Thorne. His gaze was fixed—puzzled, maybe even resentful.
All that effort. The power he had unleashed. And yet the pillar hadn't moved.
"It's a wonder, isn't it?" Thorne said, finally announcing his presence.
Kael didn't turn. "Yeah," he muttered.
Thorne walked over, his steps soft on the stone floor. "It was shaped by a great but forgotten master. He built this whole place."
He placed a hand on the pillar, a faint smile touching his lips. "Don't be discouraged. Everyone who's been here has tried to shake it. None ever did. It's a true marvel."
Kael clicked his tongue. "It just pisses me off. Not even a tremor."
Thorne chuckled. "It does have that effect." He leaned his forehead gently against the pillar and closed his eyes.
"You've grown a lot these past months," he said after a moment, turning to Kael. "And I'm sure you're already itching to get out there."
Kael glanced at him, saying nothing.
"You've healed. You've grown stronger. There's not much left for you here," Thorne said, his voice even. "As much as it pains me to say this, young master… it's time for you to leave."
Kael raised his head, then let out a small laugh. He stood, brushing the dust from his pants.
"I know. And don't call me that. At least show some emotion—you sound like a doll."
Thorne cracked a wry smile. "I suppose I do."
"You're not coming with me, are you?" Kael asked.
"As much as I'd love to, I can't leave," Thorne replied.
Kael rolled his eyes. "For reasons beyond me."
"Exactly." Thorne grinned.
Kael rubbed his shoulder. "Well, I'll need real-world experience eventually. Can't keep hiding in stone halls."
He started walking toward the door, then paused.
"Thanks, Thorne."
"No need," Thorne replied softly. "It was my duty. I only regret I didn't have more to give."
Kael stretched, his muscles tensing under the thin fabric of his shirt. "First thing I'm doing is taking a bath."
"It's been prepared," Thorne called after him.
---
Kael sat on the edge of his bed, glancing around the small room he had grown so used to. The shelves, the table, even the lingering scent of incense—it all felt… familiar. Safe.
His hair was cut back to the messy, short length he preferred. The gray shirt Thorne had given him was burned at the sleeve, now closer to a vest. He pulled it off and looked at himself.
Lean. Defined. His muscles had sharpened—compact, tense, like they were struggling to contain the force pulsing beneath the skin. He wasn't just stronger. He was different.
The door creaked open behind him.
Thorne entered, carrying a wooden crate. Kael arched a brow.
"What's this now?" he said under his breath.
Thorne set the crate down gently and opened it. He pulled out a neatly folded set of clothes. A scroll. And—
Kael froze.
A gauntlet.
His breath caught in his throat. That gauntlet. That one.
His stomach twisted. His body went cold.
He recognized it immediately—the jagged edges, the blackened steel.
It was the one he had worn during the rampage.
The one that had turned him into something else.
His fists clenched. For a moment, he couldn't move. His chest tightened as the memories surged—blood, screaming, that feeling of losing himself, of something ancient clawing its way up through his veins.
His voice came out low, almost hoarse. "Why… why do you still have that?"
Thorne didn't answer right away. He simply met Kael's eyes, calm and steady.
Kael looked away, his jaw locked. "I won't have anything to do with that again," he muttered. "I won't."
"I believe you," Thorne said gently.
Kael looked down at the floor, breathing out slowly.
"What's all this?" he asked, more controlled now.
Thorne tilted his head. "Clothes. A gauntlet. And... the other scroll your mother left for you."
Kael blinked. Slowly, he reached into the crate and touched the scroll.
Another gift from her. What would it be this time?