Time in the Old Woods wasn't measured in hours. It was measured in bruises.
Kael stood in the center of the clearing, his chest heaving. The grey morning light filtered through the canopy, illuminating the steam rising from his skin. In his hands, he held a practice sword—a heavy, unbalanced stick of ironwood that felt more like a club.
Across from him, Elric didn't even look winded.
"Again," the Knight said.
Kael didn't argue. He gritted his teeth and stepped forward. He swung the wooden blade in a downward arc, putting his shoulder into it, aiming for Elric's collarbone.
Elric stepped left. A small, efficient movement. He didn't block. He just let Kael's momentum carry him past, then tapped him on the back of the knee with his own weapon.
Kael's leg buckled. He hit the mud. Again.
"You're fighting the air," Elric boredly noted. "The air always wins."
Kael scrambled up, wiping mud from his cheek. "I'm trying to hit you."
"No. You're trying to hit where I was three seconds ago. You're angry, so you commit. You commit, so you die."
Elric tossed his wooden sword to his other hand. "Anger is fuel, boy. But an engine without a steering wheel is just a bomb."
Kael spat. "You told me to hate the hiding."
"Hating the hiding and being stupid are two different things."
Elric pointed the sword at Kael's chest. "The Oath. Where is it?"
Kael frowned. "What?"
"The thing you swore in the ash. The thing that kept you walking when your gut was empty. Where is it right now?"
Kael closed his eyes. He felt for it. The cold, heavy weight in his chest. The memory of the signal fire.
The indifference of the fortress.
"It's here," Kael whispered.
"Pull on it."
Kael focused. He let the memory flood him. The heat of the burning pyre. The smell of the dead village. The absolute, crystalline clarity of his hatred for the monsters and the men who let them feed.
His grip on the ironwood tightened. His breathing slowed. The fatigue in his arms vanished, replaced by a cold surge of energy
"Good," Elric said seeing the change in Kael's stance. "Now, don't just throw it at me. Use it."
Kael didn't scream this time. He moved.
He lunged, feinting high. Elric raised his guard. Kael stopped the swing mid-air—muscles screaming against the momentum—and twisted, driving the pommel of his wooden sword toward Elric's gut.
It was fast. Faster than he had ever moved.
But Elric was a wall.
The Knight caught the blow on his forearm. The impact made a dull *thud*. Elric's eyes widened slightly—just a fraction.
Then he headbutted Kael.
White light exploded behind Kael's eyes. He staggered back, dropping his sword, clutching his nose. Blood—warm and metallic—gushed over his fingers.
"Better," Elric said.
Kael groaned, looking up through tearing eyes. "You broke my nose."
"I stopped you from gutting me. If that had been real steel, you would have overextended, and I would have taken your head."
Elric walked over and inspected Kael's face. He grabbed Kael's chin, tilting it left and right.
"It's not broken. Just crooked. Gives you character."
He let go and walked back to the campfire. "That surge you felt? That clarity? That's the Oath interacting with your intent. It's not magic, Kael. It's will made manifest. But if you let it drive, you crash. You have to be the driver."
Kael sat on a mossy root, pinching his nose to staunch the bleeding. "How do I drive it?"
Elric picked up a waterskin and tossed it. "Drills. Miles of running. And listening to me."
He sat down and began to unbuckle his greaves.
"We rest for an hour. Then we work on parries. If you drop your guard again, I'm breaking the other side of your nose to match."
Kael drank the water. It tasted like iron, just like the woods. He looked at the ironwood sword lying in the mud. He looked at Elric, the old lion cleaning his claws.
He touched his swelling nose and winced.
"Fine," Kael muttered.
But inside, the cold weight was still there. And for the first time, it didn't feel like a burden. It felt like a weapon he just didn't know how to hold yet.