The knock came at dawn.
Caleb opened the door, still half-laced in his tunic, to find his father already dressed in dark leathers. Lord Garron's expression was unreadable, but his words were plain:
"Put on your gear. Bring what fire you can control. We leave within the hour."
Caleb blinked. "Leave for where?"
"Wolf grove."
The name hit like a spark in dry kindling. Caleb's stomach tightened, but he nodded.
He didn't know what this meant—an approval, a test, or something else entirely. But it was a chance.
He would take it.
***
They entered Wolf Grove beneath a canopy of clouds and ancient trees, the sunlight swallowed by branches that groaned in the wind. The path narrowed quickly, the undergrowth rising like living walls around them. Moss clung to gnarled roots. The air carried a sharp, green weight—moist, wild, and full of unseen life.
Caleb followed his father in silence, every footstep a study in restraint. The fire within him stirred in anticipation, its quiet hum matching the rhythm of his breath. But he kept it leashed.
Garron knelt by a tree with three gouges in its bark.
"Wolves," he said, his voice low. "But not natural. Corrupted. Too close to the ley-lines."
Caleb crouched beside him. "They're feeding on mana?"
His father gave a small nod, already moving on.
They didn't speak again for hours. Only gestures. Pointing out broken twigs. Scuffed tracks. The absence of birdsong.
The deeper they went, the more Caleb's unease grew.
He had imagined this differently. He'd seen himself walking tall, fire singing in his palm, fear burning away before him. But the woods didn't care. They were old, and they pressed close, like they were watching.
And somewhere in them—something hunted.
***
By dusk, they found the carcass of a deer half-buried in leaves, throat torn, ribs shattered.
Garron stepped carefully around it. "We camp here."
They made a small fire with mundane tinder, not magic. Caleb sat close, staring into the flickering light. He was quiet, waiting for his father to speak. But Garron only cleaned his blade, eyes on the dark woods.
Then came the howls—sharp, echoing, wrong.
And then—movement.
Three wolves emerged from the tree line. Black-furred, eyes glowing with faint blue mist. One limped, but still moved fast. Another's teeth were warped into bony protrusions. They didn't growl. They hissed.
Caleb rose, flame leaping to his palm. "Ready."
"Don't shout it. Do it."
The first wolf lunged.
Caleb fired—too early. The bolt scorched the ground to the right, missing by several feet. He tried to ready another, but the flame jumped wildly, licking up his wrist. He recoiled, hissing in pain.
The second wolf leapt toward him.
He braced for the strike—but Garron was there, sword flashing, steel biting into fur and bone.
"Behind you!" Garron called.
Caleb spun—just in time to see the third wolf closing in. He panicked. The fire in his hand surged—too much. He threw it instinctively. The blast hit a tree, igniting it. Fire climbed the bark in a frenzy. Smoke choked the clearing.
Caleb stumbled back, coughing. The wolf was almost on him.
Then a blur of movement—Garron's blade, clean and final.
The grove fell silent again, save for the crackle of burning bark.
Garron doused the tree with wet earth and a curt spell.
Caleb leaned against a rock, chest heaving, smoke clinging to his tunic. His hand throbbed with mana strain. The adrenaline faded, and shame flooded in its place.
"I missed," he muttered.
"You panicked," Garron said.
"I—I thought I was ready."
Garron cleaned his blade. "So did they."
Caleb frowned. "Who?"
"Men I buried. Some were stronger than you. Some wiser. Every one of them thought instinct was enough. Fire doesn't care if you think you're ready."
They sat in silence beside the rekindled campfire, smaller now, more cautious.
After a while, Caleb said, "I thought if I just tried hard enough… I could control it."
Garron looked at him—not harsh, but steady.
"You will. But not like this. You want to protect others? Then first, survive long enough to learn how."
The flames danced between them, and for once, Caleb didn't speak. He just listened—to the forest, to his breath, to the whisper of his father's words.
And to the truth they carried.
***
By morning, the forest seemed quieter. As if the danger had receded, or perhaps, as if it was merely watching from farther away.
They left Wolf grove in silence.
When they reached the edge of the trees, where the sunlight broke clean across the hills, Garron finally spoke.
"You'll go to the academy," he said. "You'll study. You'll learn control, theory, restraint. You'll be surrounded by those who can teach you what I cannot."
Caleb opened his mouth—then closed it. He nodded once.
"And when you're ready," Garron added, "you'll know. Not because someone tells you. But because you won't need to ask."
Caleb didn't smile. But something inside him settled.
Not the fire.
Himself.
***
That night, back in his chamber, Caleb opened the small chest beneath his bed. He took out the folded parchment where he had written his vows.
He crossed out a single line:
"Even if I have to do it alone."
Beneath it, in fresh ink, he wrote:
"I will learn. I will listen. And when the fire answers me—it will be because I earned it."
He set down the quill.
Not ready.
But finally—willing to become so.