Date: June 7, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The training under Divilla's supervision began with a feeling of strange, vibrating silence. The Energy inside Dur no longer raged as it had in the first days of taking the "Bitter Gift." It had settled, becoming a dense foundation that permeated every muscle and ligament. The young man felt as if his body had been forged from a single piece of heavy metal, which, nevertheless, retained the flexibility of living flesh.
Regeneration, enhanced by his power, worked reliably. Yesterday's deep abrasions on his feet and palms had healed, leaving behind only streaks of lighter skin. This wasn't instantaneous healing—the cuts took hours to close, not seconds—but for an ordinary person, such wounds would have required days of rest. Dur understood: the higher his level rose, the more incredible his body's capabilities would become. But for now, he was only at the beginning of the path.
Divilla was waiting for them on the same training ground, but this time there were no stones. Before her, on a silk cushion, lay long, thin needles of hardened "black steel."
"The stones were only to make you stop fearing blows," she said, her voice colder than usual. "These needles are different. They are coated with a compound that temporarily blocks the passage of Energy at the point of the prick. If you miss a strike—your defense at that point will disappear. Maël, your Spirit must learn to anticipate not only the point of appearance but also the vector of the attack. Dur... your Energy Development is your only shell."
She didn't wait for an answer. In that same second, ten needles vanished from the cushion.
Dur instantly entered a state of extreme concentration. He no longer closed his eyes—he had learned to combine ordinary sight with the "feeling of Energy." The world around became clear, almost hyper-realistic. He saw every fiber on Divilla's clothing, heard her steady breathing.
Crack! A Castling occurred right in front of his throat.
Dur didn't just dodge—he shifted his torso exactly as much as needed for the needle to pass a millimeter from his skin. He felt the movement of air caused by the steel. But Divilla didn't limit herself to one attack. The needles began to appear in series, creating complex geometric patterns of deadly stingers.
Maël moved beside him, and Dur saw out of the corner of his eye how he worked. Maël was faster. His Spirit allowed him to make micro-movements that were beyond Dur. Maël's Energy flowed smoothly, like mercury, adapting to each new threat. He was stronger precisely because of this magical flexibility. Dur, on the other hand, relied on something else—stability.
At one point, Divilla performed a complex castling, swapping a needle with one of the buttons on Dur's jacket. It was too fast. The young man felt a sharp prick in his shoulder.
"Damn!" he exhaled.
The point of the prick instantly went numb. Dur felt the energy in that zone hit a wall, as it were. The muscles of his shoulder became limp, his defense loose.
"Don't stop!" Divilla shouted. "In battle, no one will wait for your paralysis to pass. Bend the Energy around the blocked zone! Use the pressure of neighboring channels to break through the plug!"
Dur clenched his teeth. The pain was dull and annoying. He focused on the inner flow. He began to force Energy from his chest and back into the numb shoulder. It was like trying to push thick honey through a narrow slit. But his persistence bore fruit—after a few minutes, the numbness began to subside. His regeneration, spurred by his will, began to fight the compound on the needle.
The training continued until the sun began to sink towards the horizon. By then, Dur and Maël resembled pincushions—their training clothes were torn, and dozens of small red dots adorned their bodies.
Divilla stopped and gestured for them to sit on the stones. She looked thoughtful.
"You are progressing," she said, putting away the remaining needles. "Dur, your ability to restore channel conductivity under pressure is impressive. You are a talented middle-grounder who gets by on sheer stubbornness. The Agrim Family values such people, but remember: diligence alone is not enough."
She looked at Dur, and there was no pity in her gaze, only dry calculation.
"Your energy is now at the peak of the first level. Your body is already strong enough. Regeneration allows you to recover from such training overnight. But if they break your arm—you'll still be useless for a week. That is your weakness. At the sixth or seventh level of Energy Development, you could regrow a severed hand in a quarter of an hour. But you're still hundreds of thousands of hours of pain away from that."
Dur listened to her, and his resolve grew stronger within him. He wasn't a genius like Maël, whose Spirit did half the work for him. But he was someone who never gave up. Every word of Divilla's about his "average-ness" he took as a challenge. He would prove that he could rise above any Spirit-bearer.
"Maël," Divilla turned to her nephew. "Your Spirit demands more energy than you can give it. You are a powerful blade with a fragile hilt. If you don't strengthen your body as Dur does, you will simply break in the first prolonged battle."
She stood up and walked to the edge of the training ground, looking east. The air there seemed heavy, almost tangible.
"Tomorrow, everything will change. We've received news from the 'Iron Gullet.' Valtorn has begun moving his troops. This means that in a few days, the citadel will be attacked. Our time in Ligra is over."
A heavy pause hung in the air. Dur felt his heart skip a beat. Not from fear, but from anticipation. The time of theory and safe training was over. Real war was on the doorstep.
"Dur," Maël called, when Divilla left to prepare the detachment for departure. "Are you ready?"
Dur looked at his hands. The numbness in his shoulder was almost gone, his skin was clean, and the energy inside felt like a taut string. He remembered Ulvia. How she never gave up. He remembered Kaedan, who always threw himself into the thick of a fight. And Ghill, who always knew what to do.
"I'm ready," Dur replied, and his voice was firm. "My Energy Development isn't yet at the level to break mountains. But it's enough so that I won't be a burden."
In the evening, they didn't talk. Each tended to their own gear. Dur sharpened his hunting knife—his faithful companion since the forest. He felt the energy inside him slowly flowing through his channels, repairing the micro-traumas from Divilla's needles. His regeneration had become slightly more efficient—the small punctures healed in just an hour. It was a small victory, one of millions he would have to achieve on the path to his dream.
That night, Dur had a nightmare. A giant funnel, the roar of falling water, and a blinding light in the center. He saw the figures of his friends standing on the edge of the abyss. They were far away, their faces invisible, but he knew—they were waiting for him. And to reach them, he had to pass through the flames.