Morning arrived without ceremony.
The forest did not announce the new day with anything dramatic-no sudden light, no shift of wind-only the gradual thinning of shadow as dawn bled through the trees. The cave awoke in fragments: the crackle of dying embers, the rustle of fabric, the sound of someone exhaling after a restless sleep.
Vernon was already awake.
He lay still on his bedroll, staring at the uneven stone ceiling, listening to Bruce's steady breathing nearby. The quiet between heartbeats felt heavier than usual, as though the world itself was holding something back.
Eventually, he sat up.
Outside, the lake mirrored the pale sky, mist clinging to its surface like a memory that refused to fade. Derek stood at the water's edge, unmoving, as he often did in the early hours-a habit Vernon had come to associate with thinking rather than training.
This morning, though, Derek held no weapon.
Only time.
The transition from night to morning passed slowly, deliberately.
By the time Bruce emerged from the cave, rubbing sleep from his eyes, the sun had fully cleared the treetops. Birds stirred. The forest resumed its rhythm.
Derek turned as Bruce approached.
"Eat first," Derek said, nodding toward the packed rations. "Then we begin."
Bruce froze.
"...Begin what?" he asked.
Derek studied him carefully-not as a father studies a child, but as a craftsman evaluates raw material.
"The first step," Derek replied. "If you still want it."
Bruce swallowed.
He glanced back toward the cave, where Vernon stood half-hidden in shadow.
"I want it," Bruce said.
Derek nodded once.
The lake became their boundary.
Not an explicit one-no line drawn in the dirt-but a natural division that the narrative itself seemed to respect. Vernon remained near the cave, sorting supplies and pretending not to listen, while Bruce followed Derek along the water's edge.
This separation was intentional.
Training of this nature demanded focus-and witnesses, even unintentional ones, could interfere.
"Before we move," Derek said, stopping near a flat stone, "you need to understand something clearly."
Bruce straightened instinctively.
"My martial art is not a technique," Derek continued. "It is a commitment. Once your body begins to change, it will resist anything else."
Bruce frowned. "Resist... how?"
"Pain," Derek said simply. "Rejection. Regression."
He met Bruce's gaze.
"If you abandon it midway, your body will attempt to undo itself. That process can take years. During that time, you will be weak. Sick. Possibly bedridden."
Bruce didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he looked at his hands-small, calloused from months of survival work-and clenched them slowly.
"I've thought about it," he said. "Since before you even asked."
Derek searched his face for hesitation.
Found none.
"Then sit," Derek said.
While Bruce began the slow, gruelling work of conditioning-breathing, posture, strain held just beyond comfort-the narrative shifted naturally back toward Vernon, guided not by urgency but by contrast.
Vernon wandered the forest path alone.
He told himself he was checking traps.
He told himself he was gathering herbs.
Neither explanation held much weight.
His thoughts kept circling the same question - What do I do now?
He stopped near the lake's far edge, where the water grew darker and deeper. The surface rippled faintly, though no wind touched it.
"You're restless," Melian's voice said softly.
She appeared beside him without ceremony, as though she had always been there.
"I'm conflicted," Vernon replied. "That's worse."
Melian tilted her head. "You're watching him choose a path you can't walk."
"That's one way to put it."
"You could still try," she said gently.
Vernon laughed-not bitterly, but tired.
"And destroy myself in the process?"
Melian did not answer immediately.
Instead, she crouched by the water, fingertips brushing the surface.
"Some paths don't reject you," she said. "They simply ask a different price."
Vernon looked away.
The afternoon passed slowly.
Bruce's training did not involve strikes or forms-only stillness, strain, and repetition. Derek corrected posture with brief touches, never raising his voice.
Pain arrived early.
It lingered.
Bruce endured.
By evening, his limbs shook, sweat soaked through his clothes, and his breathing came in shallow bursts-but his eyes burned with focus.
"That's enough," Derek said at last.
Bruce collapsed onto the grass, chest heaving.
"...That was just the beginning, wasn't it?" Bruce muttered.
Derek allowed himself a small smile. "Yes."
The scene shifted again-not abruptly, but as a natural consequence of time passing.
Night settled over the forest.
A fire crackled near the cave. Bruce ate in silence, exhaustion weighing heavily on him. Derek sat across from him, sharpening a blade with slow, rhythmic strokes.
Vernon joined them late.
"You okay?" Bruce asked, forcing a grin.
Vernon nodded. "Yeah."
It wasn't a lie.
Just incomplete.
Later, when the fire burned low and the forest hushed, Vernon sat alone outside the cave.
The moon hung high, pale and watchful.
He thought of his mother.
Of research notes filled with hope that had been twisted into weapons.
Of Bruce choosing a path with certainty.
Of Derek carrying burdens without complaint.
And of himself - standing between possibilities, unsure which would accept him without breaking him first.
"I'll figure it out," he murmured to the night.
Not a vow.
Not yet.
Just a promise to keep moving.
At the lake's edge, Derek wrote again.
The moonlight illuminated the page just enough.
Bruce-Important notes
Pain tolerance high. Resolve stable.
Adaptation to the arts smooth
He paused, then turned the page.
Vernon-Continued Observation
Healing trait confirmed.
Stamina depletion severe but non-damaging.
Psychological resistance to forced paths noted.
Derek closed the notebook.
Across the clearing, the brothers slept beneath the same moon - walking separate roads, yet still side by side.
And from the forest's edge, unseen but present, Melian watched.
Not interfering.
Not guiding.
Just waiting.