---
Morning arrived without ceremony.
No horn, no bell, no signal from the city watch—just the slow thinning of darkness and the quiet acceptance that another day had begun. The air behind the Strauss house was cold and damp, carrying the smell of stone and old earth. The training yard lay exactly as it always had: a narrow strip of hardened ground bordered by a cracked stone wall, scarred with years of footwork and blade marks.
Rexor was already moving.
His wooden sword cut through the air in sharp, practiced arcs. The form was correct—too correct. Every motion followed a structure drilled into him through repetition and correction. His stance was wide, his guard high, his steps measured.
Knight training.
Maxmilian watched from the edge of the yard, arms crossed, saying nothing.
Rexor completed the sequence and reset, breathing steadily. He started again.
Halfway through the form, he stopped.
The sword froze mid-swing.
Rexor frowned.
He adjusted his grip and tried again, slower this time. The movements felt heavier, like he was carrying someone else's expectations through each strike.
He stopped again.
Maxmilian raised an eyebrow but didn't interrupt.
Rexor lowered the sword and exhaled. "This technique," he said finally. "It's clean. Strong. But it leaves openings."
Maxmilian remained silent.
Rexor turned toward him. "If someone steps inside here—" he shifted his stance, exposing his flank, "—they'd get past the guard before I could recover."
He demonstrated, moving through the sequence again and deliberately halting at the vulnerable moment.
"I'd already be dead," Rexor said.
Maxmilian's gaze sharpened.
Rexor swallowed, then added, "The knights say it's perfected. That it's survived generations. But… I don't think it was meant for what we fight now."
That earned a response.
"Go on," Maxmilian said.
Rexor straightened slightly. Encouraged. "If I shorten the arc here, and angle my step like this—" he adjusted, demonstrating a tighter, more compact movement, "—I lose some reach, but I don't give my side away."
He hesitated, then asked the real question. "Can I change it?"
The yard went quiet.
Voryn stood near the wall, staff resting loosely in his hands. He hadn't been training. He hadn't been asked to. His eyes followed Rexor's movements with unsettling focus, tracking not the sword—but the spaces between movements.
Maxmilian stepped forward.
"Show me," he said.
Rexor didn't smile.
He reset his stance and moved again—this time with intent. The modified form lacked the wide, impressive sweeps of knight training. It was tighter. Shorter. More controlled. Less ceremonial.
More honest.
Maxmilian circled him slowly, watching foot placement, timing, recovery.
When Rexor finished, breathing harder than before, Maxmilian said, "Again."
Rexor complied.
On the third repetition, Rexor turned—
—and nearly collided with Voryn.
The boy was standing in his blind spot.
Not threatening.
Just there.
Rexor startled, instinctively raising his sword.
"You didn't close this," Voryn said quietly, pointing—not at the blade, but at Rexor's rear angle.
Rexor blinked. "I—"
Voryn shifted one step. "Here. If I move like this."
Rexor followed the motion and felt it—an unguarded space he hadn't considered.
Maxmilian watched in silence.
Rexor lowered his sword slowly. "I thought fixing the front was enough."
"It never is," Voryn said.
That wasn't confidence.
That was experience.
Maxmilian stepped between them. "Training ends here."
Rexor nodded, thoughtful rather than disappointed.
Voryn said nothing.
But Maxmilian had already seen it.
Rexor saw the world in lines and ideas.
Voryn saw it in angles and consequences.
---
The house was quieter later.
Aurélia moved about the kitchen, preparing what little could be stretched into a meal. Rexor sat near the table, wiping sweat from his arms, still lost in thought.
Voryn sat near the hearth, knees drawn up slightly, staff resting beside him.
Rexor glanced at him, then away.
After a moment, he spoke.
"Do you know why the Outer Lands exist?" Rexor asked.
Voryn didn't answer immediately. "People say things," he replied.
Rexor nodded. "I read the old records. The ones the knights don't like to talk about."
That caught Voryn's attention.
"They say the world used to be wider," Rexor continued. "Not bigger—just… fuller. Cities beyond the borders. Kingdoms that didn't hide behind walls."
He leaned forward, voice low but steady. "Then something broke. Not all at once. Piece by piece."
Voryn listened.
"They say the first Outer Land wasn't a wasteland," Rexor said. "It was a road. A trade path that never came back."
Voryn's fingers tightened around the staff.
Rexor didn't notice. "Heroes went out to fix it. Some returned. Most didn't. Over time, the maps stopped being updated. The borders stopped moving outward."
He looked at Voryn. "Doesn't that bother you?"
Voryn considered the question.
"No," he said.
Rexor frowned. "Why not?"
"Because things that disappear usually don't want to be found," Voryn replied.
Rexor stared at him for a moment, then laughed softly—not mockingly, but uncertainly. "You always talk like that."
Voryn didn't respond.
Rexor's expression shifted. More serious now. "I want to see it myself," he said. "The places beyond the walls. Not just fight monsters. Understand what happened."
Voryn looked at the fire.
"I don't think the world wants to be understood," he said.
Rexor smiled faintly. "Maybe. But I still want to try."
Neither noticed Maxmilian standing just outside the doorway.
He had heard enough.
---
Later that night, Maxmilian found Voryn awake.
The boy sat near the window, watching torchlight slide across the shutters as patrols passed outside. His posture was relaxed—but his eyes never stopped moving.
Maxmilian sat across from him.
"You stood your ground yesterday," Maxmilian said.
Voryn didn't respond.
"Not against a demon," Maxmilian continued. "Against authority."
Voryn's jaw tightened.
"You were afraid," Maxmilian said. "But you spoke anyway."
Voryn nodded once.
"Why?"
Voryn hesitated.
"…Because it feeds us."
Maxmilian studied him carefully. "And when speaking puts him in danger?"
Voryn looked up.
Maxmilian's gaze didn't waver. "When Rexor stops seeing danger. When curiosity carries him too far forward."
Voryn answered immediately. "I stand behind him."
Maxmilian nodded.
That was all he needed.
---
Rexor slept deeply that night.
His dreams were full of roads and ruined towers, maps that stretched farther each time he unfolded them. He dreamed of fixing what had been broken—not with force, but understanding.
Voryn did not sleep.
He sat with his back to the wall, listening to the city breathe. To steel against stone. To distant thunder that reminded him the Outer Lands never truly slept.
Rexor dreamed of the world as it once was.
Voryn prepared for it as it was.
And Maxmilian lay awake between them, knowing that one day, neither light nor shadow would be enough on its own.
---