"Again."
Kael's breathing was ragged. Sweat dripped down his spine, soaking the back of his tunic. The bronze chain flickered in his hand, unstable, as if unsure whether it belonged in this world.
Across from him, Sarai stood with her arms folded, eyes sharp with focus and frustration.
"That's the third time you hesitated," she said. "In a real fight, that delay gets you—or someone else—killed."
Kael gritted his teeth. "I'm not hesitating. I'm trying to keep it from collapsing."
"Then you're already losing."
The training grounds were built into a hollow ridge overlooking Emberfall's inner caldera, a ring of scorched obsidian where temperatures fluctuated with each pulse of the surrounding forges. This wasn't a simulation. The resonance here was raw, volatile—perfect for live fire trials.
Sarai circled him like a predator.
"You said the chain formed from truth," she continued. "Good. Now shape it in motion."
Kael raised the bronze link, the memory of Aria still heavy in his Core. His pulse aligned. The chain shimmered.
Sarai moved.
Her blade was light—nonlethal, but fast—and her shaping surged behind it. Wind and arc-light curved like blades of pressure, forcing Kael to pivot, duck, and re-center.
He dodged three strikes, deflected the fourth.
But the fifth landed—flat against his shoulder, jarring him sideways.
The chain sputtered and dimmed.
"Too slow."
Kael growled. "I'm not a soldier."
"No," Sarai snapped, "you're something worse. You're a shaper with no control over a world-breaking tool. If you can't hold the chain under stress, then it isn't a weapon. It's a liability."
He steadied his stance, anger tightening his jaw. "Then hit me again."
She smiled. "That's more like it."
The next round wasn't training—it was war.
Sarai unleashed three elemental constructs at once: flame lances, a kinetic cage, and a shaped mirage of herself that struck from behind.
Kael threw the chain—missed.
He shaped another—flickered, unstable.
Too much force. Not enough intent.
He forced his Core still.
Not anger.
Not instinct.
Truth.
The memory surfaced: the day he escaped the Hollow. The people he didn't save. The pain of survival when others didn't.
His Core aligned. His breathing synced.
And the chain formed.
Solid.
He stepped into the strike—let it graze him.
Then whipped the chain around in a spiral, not as a weapon, but a field of denial. The constructs shattered against it—not from impact, but because they couldn't exist within its assertion:
"This space is mine."
Even Sarai blinked.
Kael collapsed again—exhausted. The link faded, but didn't vanish.
This time… it had stayed longer.
She walked up and offered a hand.
He took it.
"You're still slow," she muttered.
"You're still terrifying," he replied.
"I know."
Later that evening, Kael sat alone in the upper terrace overlooking the inner caldera. His arms were bruised. His Core burned. But the chain hovered at the edge of his consciousness like a sleeping beast.
Sarai joined him, silent for a while.
"You shaped that link around a memory of failure," she finally said.
Kael nodded. "It hurt. But it was real."
She looked down at the forgefire below. "That's the catch. The Chains of Intent don't feed on power. They feed on honesty. And there are only so many truths in us before we run dry."
Kael glanced at her. "How many links can someone shape?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"Depends on how much of yourself you're willing to face."