Ash's fingers closed around the practice sword.
The sound was small—wood against leather, a soft scrape as he lifted it from the grass—but it snapped the room tight, like the air itself had been waiting for that exact noise.
"Show him something," the Guild Master repeated, voice calm.
Ash's shoulders straightened. Not stiff with fear—controlled. Familiar. The way someone moved when they'd been shaped by that voice for years.
"Yes, sir," Ash said.
He didn't look at me.
He didn't need to.
He walked.
Not across the grass this time.
He crossed toward the edge of the training room where the indoor field ended and the ground changed—wood planks gave way to a strip of pale stone that ran along the wall, clean and hard. No grass. No softness.
A place meant for damage.
Ash stopped on the stone strip and turned his body sideways, feet setting into a stance that looked practiced enough to be instinct. His grip on the practice sword shifted—firm, then looser, then firm again, as if he was testing the balance of himself more than the weapon.
He closed his eyes.
And then he went still.
The room didn't go silent. The lanterns still whispered with flame. Somewhere far down the hallway, the guild creaked in its sleep.
But the space around Ash changed.
His breathing slowed.
Not forced.
Measured.
In… out… in… out…
The bandages on his arms caught the lamplight, pale and stark against his skin. I could smell the faint sting of ointment even from here, like medicine was part of him now.
I watched his shoulders rise and fall, steady as a metronome.
Then something tugged at the air.
It wasn't a loud wind. There wasn't a dramatic howl.
It was a pull—as if the room inhaled toward Ash's blade.
The grass rippled in a thin wave across the field, blades bending toward the stone strip. My hair lifted slightly at my temples. The lantern flame near the wall leaned inward for a heartbeat.
Ash's sword… answered.
A weak flame sparked along the wooden practice blade.
For a terrifying instant my mind screamed that the wood would ignite, that the whole room would catch, that fire would swallow the grass—
But the flame wasn't wild.
It was controlled. Thin. Like a ribbon of orange light wrapped around the blade's edge. It didn't roar. It glowed, casting a warm flicker over the dark corner of the training room and painting the stone strip in moving shadows.
Ash's jaw clenched.
Even with his eyes closed, I saw the tension in his face, like he was forcing his body to accept something it hated.
The flame held for a breath.
Two.
Then it shivered, weakened—
—and vanished.
Ash's eyes snapped open.
He dropped to one knee so fast the movement looked like collapse rather than choice. The practice sword slipped from his fingers and clattered against stone, rolling a short distance before stopping.
Ash's head bowed. Sweat dripped from his chin. His chest heaved in uneven gulps, like he'd been running for miles.
His bandaged hands trembled.
He stayed on one knee, gasping, and for a moment the only sound in the room was his breath and the soft rustle of grass settling back into place.
Sir Erdallion didn't move from the doorway.
"You still need work," he said, tone flat.
Ash forced his head up. His voice came out strained but immediate. "Yes, sir."
I stared.
My mind kept replaying that moment of flame on the blade.
A practice sword.
A weapon that wasn't even meant to be real.
And it had burned anyway.
Not the wood itself. Not uncontrolled fire. A manifestation—something that existed because Ash decided it would exist.
My throat went dry.
Sir Erdallion walked past me without a glance at first, approaching the stone strip where Ash knelt. Ash straightened as much as his shaking arms allowed, trying to look like he wasn't exhausted.
Sir Erdallion's gaze flicked to the practice sword on the stone.
Then he looked at me.
"Now you've seen it," he said.
My voice barely worked. "That… was aura?"
"Yes," Sir Erdallion replied. "One use of it."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Aura is the manifestation of will," he continued, and this time his tone shifted—not gentler, but more deliberate, like he'd decided it was time I stopped being confused and started being taught. "Not imagination. Not magic as children pretend it is. Will."
He lifted his hand slightly, palm open, as if holding something invisible.
"Every person has a mind," he said. "Every mind has desire. Fear. Resolve. Purpose. When that purpose hardens—when it becomes something you can hold onto even when pain, hunger, and death are pressing against you—your presence begins to touch the world."
He lowered his hand.
"That touch is aura."
Ash swallowed hard behind him, still catching his breath.
Sir Erdallion didn't look back.
"For most people," he said, "their will never becomes sharp enough. They live. They work. They die. That is all."
I flinched at the bluntness.
Sir Erdallion watched my reaction and didn't soften.
"But for some," he continued, "life forces a question onto them. A question they cannot ignore. And if they answer it with enough stubbornness… the world begins to answer back."
My heart beat faster.
I thought of Myrina walking into the Abyss because someone dangled a platinum coin and she refused to let the world keep us starving.
I thought of Ash kneeling in bandages, forcing fire onto a wooden blade.
I thought of myself under a mountain of pressure, screaming and still pushing up.
Sir Erdallion gestured toward Ash without turning fully.
"His will manifests as fire," he said.
Ash's jaw tightened again, like the word fire tasted bitter.
"The expression differs," Sir Erdallion continued. "For some, it is heat. For others, cold. Sound. Light. Wind. Illusion. There are patterns, yes—many people manifest similar things. But no two wills are identical, and so no aura is truly identical."
He looked at me fully now.
"The intensity is tied to strength," he said. "Not strength of muscle. Strength of will. How far you can push your mind without shattering it."
My throat tightened. "And what about yours…?"
Sir Erdallion's eyes narrowed slightly.
Then, without raising his voice, without making a show of it, he let the air around us press.
Not the mountain.
A fraction.
Enough that my knees wanted to soften and my skin prickled.
I forced myself not to move.
"Gravity," Sir Erdallion said simply.
The pressure vanished.
I exhaled shakily, realizing I'd been holding my breath again.
Ash's breathing steadied a little. He shifted, as if the demonstration had reminded him that even exhausted, he was still expected to listen.
Sir Erdallion turned back toward the grass field and began pacing slowly, hands behind his back. The lantern light followed him in gentle flickers.
"Aura must be awakened," he said. "Some stumble into it during war. Some during the Abyss. Some on the edge of death."
His gaze slid toward Ash.
"Some train for years before it answers."
Ash's mouth tightened. He didn't argue. He didn't need to. The sweat on his face was already an answer.
"How long did it take you?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Ash hesitated—just a fraction—then answered, voice still rough. "Three years."
Three years.
The number hit me like a weight of its own.
Three years of training, pain, repetition… just to make a weak flame appear for a couple breaths.
Sir Erdallion seemed to read my thoughts.
"Do not romanticize the result," he said. "Romanticize the work. Aura is not the goal. Aura is a tool."
He stopped pacing and faced me.
"If you rely on aura as a crutch," he continued, "you will die."
The words were sharp. Final.
"Aura consumes the mind," he said. "It is your will pressing outward. To do that, you must draw from something inside yourself. If you empty that reserve too quickly, you will not simply feel tired."
His eyes hardened.
"You will break."
Ash's fingers curled in the grass, as if remembering something unpleasant.
Sir Erdallion's voice didn't rise, but it grew heavier.
"There are those who push aura too much, all at once, over a long period of time," he said. "They burn their minds the way a reckless fighter burns their muscles by refusing rest. At first, they think they are becoming stronger. They chase the feeling of control."
His gaze flicked to me, then back to the room as a whole, as if addressing the idea more than the person.
"And then they lose it," he said quietly. "Their will fractures. They stop recognizing limits. They stop recognizing themselves."
A cold knot formed in my stomach.
"They go Insane?" I whispered.
Sir Erdallion nodded once.
"Insane," he confirmed. "Unstable. Dangerous. Some become violent. Some become empty. Some die."
The lantern flame seemed to flicker lower for a moment.
"That," Sir Erdallion said, "is why training is not only physical. It is mental. Discipline. Recovery. Restraint."
His eyes narrowed.
"Restraint is what keeps power from turning into a curse."
Ash dipped his head slightly, still kneeling, as if acknowledging a lesson he'd heard many times and still feared.
My heart thudded hard against my ribs.
I wanted this.
I wanted strength.
But I didn't want to become something broken and dangerous—something that would hurt people without meaning to.
Sir Erdallion watched me think, and for once, his expression wasn't unreadable.
It looked almost… assessing.
As if deciding whether fear would make me smarter or smaller.
My throat tightened with a question that had been clawing at me since the moment he'd said the word aura.
"What about my sister?" I asked.
The words came too fast, like I'd been holding them in and they burst out before I could shape them properly.
Ash's head lifted slightly.
Sir Erdallion didn't interrupt.
I swallowed and forced myself to speak clearer.
"Myrina," I said. "What kind of aura does she have?"
Silence.
Not the empty silence of a room with no one in it.
The heavy silence of an answer that wasn't there.
Ash's gaze dropped.
Sir Erdallion's eyes narrowed, not with irritation, but with something like annoyance at reality itself.
"We do not know," he said.
My stomach sank.
Ash added quietly, "I never saw her use it."
I stared at them, refusing to accept how simple the answer was.
How could no one know?
How could my sister be the center of my world and still be a mystery even to people who trained under the Guild Master?
Sir Erdallion spoke again, voice firm.
"Not everyone awakens aura through training," he said. "Some do so without guidance. Rarely. It happens when a person's will becomes sharp under pressure—when the mind is forced into a single answer and the world responds."
Hope flickered—small, dangerous.
"Does that mean—" I started.
"It means it is possible," Sir Erdallion said, cutting me off before I could turn possibility into certainty. "Nothing more."
He paused, then added, "Nerissa is an example."
My head snapped up. "Nerissa?"
Sir Erdallion nodded once.
"She awakened aura without training," he said. "Her will manifests as light."
I blinked. Light.
That sounded… beautiful.
It also sounded useless in a fight, and the thought felt cruel.
As if the world had given her something pretty and then laughed.
Sir Erdallion's gaze sharpened as if he heard that thought too.
"Do not assume battle usefulness defines worth," he said, voice colder. "Light can guide. Reveal. Warn. Blind. Comfort. Not every aura exists to kill."
My face warmed. I looked away.
Sir Erdallion continued, "Nerissa does not use her aura often. She has reasons. You will not pry into them."
My mouth snapped shut.
Ash shifted slightly, wincing as his bandaged arms tightened. He pushed himself upright enough to sit back on his heels, still breathing hard but no longer collapsing.
Sir Erdallion looked between us.
"Your training begins in three days," he said.
Three days.
The number landed like a bell.
Not soon enough to satisfy the part of me that wanted strength now.
Soon enough to scare the part of me that knew what training under him would cost.
"In the meantime," Sir Erdallion continued, turning to Ash, "you will refine your aura through combat."
Ash's eyes widened just slightly—then he bowed his head. "Yes, sir."
"You will fight monsters using aura," Sir Erdallion said. "Not to show off. Not to drain yourself. To learn control under threat."
Ash nodded again, jaw tight.
Sir Erdallion turned to me.
"You will not do that," he said bluntly.
My chest tightened. "Why?"
"Because you will die," Sir Erdallion replied without hesitation. "You do not have aura. You do not have the body. You do not have the mind discipline yet. You will train alone, under me, when the time comes."
The words stung.
But they also… steadied something in me.
A boundary.
A structure.
A path.
Sir Erdallion's gaze held mine.
"Rest," he commanded.
He didn't say it like a suggestion. He said it like a law.
Ash lowered his head. "Yes, sir."
I swallowed and forced my voice to obey. "Yes, sir."
Sir Erdallion turned and walked back toward the doorway.
Then he paused.
Without looking back, he said, "Trey."
My heart jumped.
"Yes sir?"
"You will not wander the halls at night again," he said calmly. "If you cannot sleep, you will speak to Nerissa."
Heat rushed into my face.
"Yes sir," I whispered.
Sir Erdallion stepped out.
The air felt lighter instantly—like the room exhaled after holding its breath.
Ash let out a long breath too, shoulders dropping a fraction.
Then he glanced at me, and for the first time since the Guild Master had entered, a small grin returned.
"Welcome to the club," he murmured again.
I didn't laugh this time.
My mind was still full of flame on wood, gravity without touch, and the word insane sitting like a stone in my gut.
Ash rose carefully, picked up his practice sword, and tested his grip as if confirming his hands still worked.
"You should sleep," he said, voice quieter now. "If he says rest, he means it."
I nodded.
Ash hesitated, then added, "And… for what it's worth."
I looked at him.
His eyes were serious.
"Myrina," Ash said, "was the kind of person who didn't disappear easily."
My throat tightened.
I couldn't answer.
So I nodded once, sharp and small, and turned to leave before my face betrayed me.
***
When I finally lay down, I slept like I'd been dropped into darkness.
Not the anxious half-sleep I'd had at home, waking at every creak, expecting Myrina to come through the door even though she never did.
This was heavier.
Deeper.
My body sank into the bed like it had been waiting weeks for permission to stop fighting.
The last thing I remembered was the image of a weak flame wrapped around a wooden blade.
Then nothing.
***
I woke to sunlight.
For one confused heartbeat, I didn't know where I was.
The light was bright—clean, filtered through the guest room's window. The bed was too soft. The air smelled like soap instead of old wood and loneliness.
Then memory slammed back in.
Guild.
Guest room.
Aura.
Three days.
My eyes widened.
I bolted upright.
And immediately regretted it.
My legs screamed, sore in a way that made me hiss through my teeth. My chest felt heavy, like yesterday's pressure had left bruises inside my ribs.
I swung my feet off the bed anyway and stumbled to stand.
The clock on the wall—small and plain—mocked me.
Class had already started.
Panic rose hot.
I threw on my clothes, fingers clumsy, and rushed out of the room.
The hallway outside was busy now—morning guild life in full motion. Trainees carrying buckets. Veterans stomping past. The smell of cooking drifting up from somewhere below.
I flew toward the stairs.
Second floor to first.
My legs protested with every step.
Halfway down, a booming voice caught me like a hand around my collar.
"Mornin', pup!"
Barrek stood near the base of the stairs, grinning wide enough to count as a weapon. He looked like a walking wall, arms crossed over his chest, hair wild, eyes bright with mischief.
Before I could answer, he leaned forward, voice dropping conspiratorially.
"Wanna drink with us?"
I stared at him, breath still too fast. "I—"
A figure lunged from the side and tackled Barrek straight in the ribs.
They hit the floor with a thud.
"Stop asking a child to drink in the morning!" a man's voice snapped.
Barrek bellowed laughter from the ground, not even pretending it hurt.
The man who'd tackled him—taller than Joren, leaner than Barrek, with dark hair tied back and the kind of face that looked permanently tired—pushed himself up and jabbed a finger at Barrek's forehead.
"You're going to be the reason the guild gets sued by someone's mother," he hissed.
Barrek waved him off. "Then I'll ask him again in the evening!"
Laughter rolled through the nearby veterans, loud and easy. Someone clapped Barrek on the shoulder. Someone else cackled like this was the best show they'd seen all week.
"Good luck, kid, name's Trevor" he said to me, tone dry. "Try not to let him corrupt you."
Barrek grinned at me upside down. "Run along! Class waits for no pup!"
My face burned.
But something in my chest eased too—warm chaos replacing cold fear for a moment.
"I'm late," I blurted.
Trevor made a shooing motion. "Go."
I went.
***
By the time I reached the classroom door, my lungs were on fire and my legs felt like they'd been filled with stones.
The door was shut.
Inside, I heard Nanda's voice—steady, sharp—and the murmur of trainees responding.
Class had begun.
I stood there for a second, staring at the door like it might open out of pity.
It didn't.
My stomach twisted.
If I knocked, I'd interrupt.
If I didn't, I'd stay out here like a coward.
I raised my hand—
—and froze.
Footsteps behind me.
Soft.
Familiar.
Nerissa appeared at my shoulder like she'd been summoned by my panic.
She looked me up and down once—messy hair, flushed face, wild breathing—and her expression didn't change, but her eyes softened slightly.
"Overslept," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"I—yes," I admitted, voice small. "I'm sorry."
Nerissa didn't comment on the apology. She just reached for the door.
"Stand straight," she murmured.
My spine snapped up automatically, as if I'd been caught doing something worse than being late.
Nerissa opened the door and stepped inside.
The classroom fell silent instantly.
Every head turned toward us.
My face went hot enough to melt.
Nanda stood at the front, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Her gaze flicked to me, then to Nerissa.
Nerissa spoke before I could choke on my own shame.
"Apologies," she said calmly. "Trey was delayed due to the incident yesterday."
Nanda's expression tightened—not angry exactly. More… understanding laced with irritation at the world.
"I see," Nanda said.
Her eyes returned to me. "Come in, Trey."
My feet moved on their own.
The room felt too bright. Too many eyes.
I kept my gaze forward, trying not to shrink.
As I reached the seating area, my eyes flicked instinctively toward Finn's usual spot.
Empty.
The sight hit me unexpectedly—like stepping into a room and realizing a chair has been removed.
Finn wasn't here.
Mya caught my eye and shifted slightly, making space beside her. Her expression asked a question without words.
I sat beside her, heart still pounding.
Nanda waited until I was seated before speaking again.
"For those wondering," she said, voice steady, "Finn will be absent from class for a while."
A murmur rippled through the trainees.
Nanda held up a hand, and the room quieted.
"His father's condition is critical," she continued, and her tone left no room for gossip. "Finn will be with his family."
My stomach tightened.
Finn's father.
Marcen Halwick—the man who'd returned from the Abyss with eyes that looked alive but not present.
Critical.
The word echoed in my head, heavy and sharp.
Myrina missing.
Finn gone.
The world kept taking people away in different ways.
Nanda's gaze swept the class.
"We continue," she said simply.
The class resumed, Nanda's voice cutting through the morning like a blade through fog.
I tried to focus.
I really did.
But my mind kept drifting—back to the training room under moonlight. Back to flame wrapped around a wooden sword. Back to gravity in the air.
Back to three days.
Mya nudged my elbow lightly.
I blinked and realized I'd been staring at the page in front of me without seeing it.
Mya leaned closer and whispered, barely audible, "You okay?"
I swallowed.
The honest answer was too big.
So I gave the best one I could manage.
"I'm here," I whispered back.
Mya studied me for a second, then nodded like she understood more than I'd said.
Nanda's voice rose slightly, calling the class back to attention.
I forced my eyes forward.
Forced my mind to follow.
Because if aura was will made real—
Then this, too, mattered.
Sitting here, breathing through discomfort, refusing to fall apart in front of everyone.
Small steps.
Heavy resolve.
Three days.