A year and a half passed, and time shaped Azit with the same patience he had finally learned to offer himself. Training did not carve anger into him anymore. It refined him. His body lengthened, strengthened, and settled into a balanced grace. He moved with the quiet control of someone who knew where his center was. His shoulders had broadened. His back had straightened. His long hair now reached his shoulders, tied loosely except when he trained.
Yet what struck people was not his appearance. It was the calm that surrounded him. A calm that did not mean emptiness, but something fuller and deeper. He walked like a person who had stopped running from memories. His presence carried a gravity that came from surviving his own shadow.
Most mornings Azit arrived first. He pushed open the heavy wooden door of the training hall and let the cool air settle on his skin. Only one lantern was lit, enough to create a soft circle of light on the stone floor. He knelt within that circle and breathed until the room felt like an extension of his chest.
No trembling. No battle inside. Only focus.
Mahmoud entered later each day. Not because he had grown lax, but because he trusted Azit now. He watched the young man stretch and warm up, the movements fluid and grounded. More than once he paused in the doorway, surprised by how much Azit had changed.
One morning Mahmoud approached with an almost amused shake of his head.
"You grew again," he said.
Azit smiled. The expression fit him now, easy and real. He pushed a strand of hair behind his ear.
"So you keep telling me."
Mahmoud circled him in an exaggerated inspection. "Someone might mistake you for a noble."
"I would rather not," Azit replied, fastening his sword. "I doubt I would enjoy the company."
They began their spar. Steel rang through the hall like two clear voices speaking the same language. Azit no longer attacked from fear or habit. Every movement was a decision. Every shift was deliberate. He fought with a clarity that Mahmoud had once believed impossible for him.
Midway through, Mahmoud stopped and raised a hand. His chest rose and fell in slow breaths.
"You are ready," he said.
Azit lowered his blade. "For what?"
Mahmoud did not answer immediately.
For several long seconds he simply looked at Azit, the hall quiet except for the faint echo of their breathing. Something unreadable passed over the older man's face, not hesitation, but consideration, as if he were choosing the right doorway to open.
At last he spoke.
"There is something I have not taught you," Mahmoud said. His voice was lower now, almost solemn. "Not because you were unready before, but because you would not have survived the knowledge."
Azit straightened. His brows drew together. "What do you mean?"
Mahmoud stepped back until he stood near the center of the hall, where the lantern light spilled across the floor in a soft gold circle.
"Rym," he said. The single word seemed to thrum through the stone. "The force that breathes through every grain of this world. It moves in the wind and the dirt. It stirs in the bones of the mountains and the pulse of a newborn child. It is life. It is memory. It is power. And if someone learns to listen to it, if they learn to ask it rather than command it, it will answer."
Azit stared at him, unsure whether to speak.
Mahmoud continued, pacing slowly, his hands clasped behind him. "With Rym the impossible becomes merely another path. A stone can become weightless if the right wish is shaped inside the mind. A wound can close. A barrier can fall. It is not magic as children dream of. It is the breath of the world, and it flows through every living thing. Even you. Even me."
Azit swallowed. "Then why have you never spoken of it?"
Mahmoud looked at him with a steady, almost gentle expression. "Because Rym mirrors the one who calls to it. If you had reached for it while anger ruled you, it would have answered with anger. If you had touched it while drowning in fear, it would have taken the shape of that fear. Rym magnifies the heart. For a long time, your heart was a battlefield."
Azit felt his breath tighten for a moment. Not in fear, but in understanding.
"And now?"
Mahmoud's gaze softened. "Now you are quiet enough for it to hear you."
He lifted one hand in front of him.
At first nothing happened. Mahmoud simply stood, palm open, fingers relaxed. Azit watched, confusion flickering at the edge of his thoughts.
Then the air changed.
It was subtle, like a shift in temperature or the moment before a storm. A pressure curled inward from the corners of the room, gentle but certain. The lantern flame quivered without wind.
A single spark appeared above Mahmoud's palm. A tiny point of light, no larger than a firefly.
It did not burn. It glowed.
The spark brightened, and then a thin ribbon of flame unfurled, twisting upward like a living thread. It grew, slow and steady, until a small flame floated above his hand, wavering but whole.
It cast warm orange light across Mahmoud's face.
"This," Mahmoud said quietly, "is Rym answering a request. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Azit felt his heartbeat echo through his ribs.
Not fear.Not envy.Something like recognition.
Mahmoud closed his fingers gently. The flame folded inward and vanished, leaving only the faint smell of heat.
He lowered his hand and met Azit's gaze.
"You are ready," he said again, but this time his meaning was deeper. "Ready to learn what the world truly is, and what you are capable of within it."
ChatGPT:
Azit did not speak at first. His eyes remained fixed on the place where the flame had been. The air still felt warm, as if the world itself had leaned close for a moment and whispered.
"Teach me," he said quietly.
Mahmoud nodded once. "I will. But understand this. Rym is not a weapon. It is not a trick. It is a conversation. The world listens to those who listen back."
Azit took in a slow breath. He felt something in his chest shift, not outward, but inward, as if a door he had never noticed had opened a crack.
"What must I do?" he asked.
Mahmoud motioned for him to sit. They settled on the floor in the same circle of lantern light where Azit meditated each morning. The room was silent except for the soft hum that lived deep in the stone walls.
"Close your eyes," Mahmoud said.
Azit did.
"Good. Now breathe. Not to calm yourself. Not to quiet memories. Breathe to notice."
Azit inhaled. The air felt cool against his tongue, then warm in his chest.
Mahmoud continued, voice steady and even. "Rym is everywhere. In the dust on the floor. In the lantern flame. In the weight of your heartbeat. Listen to these things without deciding what they should be."
Azit focused. He felt the floor beneath him, rough and real. He felt the faint warmth of the lantern. He felt his own pulse marking time inside his body. At first these sensations were separate. Then, slowly, they began to feel connected, as if one long thread ran through all of them.
Mahmoud spoke again. "Rym does not answer force. It answers honesty. You must let go of control without letting go of intention. It is like opening your hand while still holding meaning in your palm."
Azit nodded slightly.
"Now," Mahmoud said, "bring your hands forward. Gently."
Azit lifted his hands and rested them in front of him, palms open. His fingers relaxed on their own, as if the body remembered something the mind did not.
"Do not ask for flame," Mahmoud said. "Do not ask for power. Ask only to feel what moves around you."
Azit breathed again. His palms tingled. At first it felt like nerves, like blood waking, but then the sensation deepened. It spread along his fingers, up his wrists, into his arms. It felt warm, but not hot. A warmth that came from the world, not from himself.
Mahmoud watched closely. "Good. You are not reaching. You are receiving."
Azit focused harder. The warmth gathered between his palms, faint but present. It felt like a heartbeat in the air, something steady and patient.
"What is that?" Azit whispered.
"Rym greeting you," Mahmoud answered. "It always begins as a touch. Never as a flame."
Azit kept his eyes closed and let the sensation grow. It thickened, almost like mist. Not visible, but absolutely there. His breath fell into rhythm with it, a gentle rise and fall.
Mahmoud leaned forward slightly. "Now open your eyes."
Azit did.
Between his palms, the air shimmered. The light bent, soft and hazy, as if the space itself was alive. It did not become fire. It did not become anything dramatic. It was simply the feeling of the world paying attention.
Azit stared, amazed.
Mahmoud smiled, a small but genuine smile. "This is the first lesson. The strength of Rym is not in power, but in connection."
Azit lowered his hands slowly. The shimmer faded, but the warmth stayed inside his chest.
"What comes next?" he asked.
Mahmoud rose to his feet. "Next, you learn to shape meaning. Then you learn what you must ask of the world when you stand before the orphanage."
Azit stood as well. He felt taller than he had that morning. Not in height, but in presence.
"I am ready," he said.
Mahmoud nodded. "Then tomorrow we begin the true training."