From the very next day, Azhriel's descent into hellish training began.
The first month was solely focused on forging his frail, malnourished body into something that could endure true combat.
Day after day, he was pushed through relentless physical drills—push-ups until his arms gave out, laps around the dense forest until his legs screamed in protest, squats, planks, and every kind of punishing routine Solas could think of.
His muscles ached, his breath often came in ragged gasps, and the bruises never seemed to fade—but slowly, painfully, his body began to change. The once-weak frame that had barely withstood a single blow was hardening, and beneath the pain, a fire was beginning to kindle.
The second month marked a shift—from building strength to learning how to use it.
Solas began drilling Azhriel in the fundamentals of combat. Footwork came first—how to move efficiently, how to stay balanced, how to read an opponent's stance.
Then came stances, strikes, and defensive forms. Unarmed techniques were drilled into him until they became reflex—blocks, dodges, counters, all sharpened through endless repetition.
Day and night, Azhriel sparred with illusions conjured by Solas with an magical artifact, each more skilled and unpredictable than the last.
Mistakes were met not with lectures, but with punches and blunt force. Under this brutal tutelage, his clumsy movements began to gain precision, and his body started responding before his thoughts could catch up.
The third month brought with it the subject Azhriel had been most excited about—and honestly, who wouldn't be thrilled to learn magic?
"Mana isn't something you control through brute force," Solas explained, his tone unusually patient. "Feel it. Don't command it—guide it. Like a river, it flows. You need to bend it, not stop it."
"Ah, like this?" Azhriel asked, lifting his hand.
A soft blue glow bloomed across his palm, a faint hum of energy whispering through the air. The mana flowed through his body with ease—graceful, responsive, almost eager.
Solas didn't even need to look closely; he could feel how naturally it moved, as if it had known Azhriel his entire life.
Solas stared at him, expression blank.
"I'll ask again," he said flatly. "Are you sure you're not a high elf?"
"I'm not," Azhriel replied, just as flat.
In the fourth month, Azhriel stepped into the world of swordsmanship.
Solas handing him a wooden training sword, began drilling him in the fundamentals: slashing, slicing, thrusting, and blocking. Each day was a brutal dance of repetition.
Swing,Slash,Correct,Again,Thrust. There was no wasted movement, no lazy grip, no faltering stance.
Azhriel never missed a day. His muscles screamed, his palms bled, and his arms shook from fatigue, but he kept going. Strike after strike, thrust after thrust, until every motion became second nature—like breathing, like blinking.
The sword was no longer just a weapon in his hand—it was starting to become an extension of himself.
By the end of the fourth month, Azhriel had mastered the basics of—body, combat, mana, and swordsmanship.
What surprised Solas the most wasn't just the boy's rapid progress, but the sheer consistency and discipline he showed. Not that he said anything. Outwardly, Solas remained as unreadable and smug as ever.
The following days shifted focus toward his elemental affinities mostly—ice.
While many took their elements for granted, believing bloodline alone guaranteed power, Solas made it clear that such thinking was foolish.
"Your element isn't just a tool," he said. "It's a part of you. Train until you become the element. Only then will it reveal its true strength."
And so, Azhriel practiced relentlessly. He shaped frost with his will, froze moisture mid-air, and learned to flow with the cold rather than resist it. The ice no longer felt foreign—it moved when he did, responded when he called.
With every passing day, the foundations of body, mind, sword, and element merged—and his training was took on another level in it's next phase.
From the break of dawn, he sparred—or rather, attempted to spar—with Solas. Each match was a brutal reminder of the gulf between them. No matter how fiercely he attacked, how clever his approach, Solas didn't even need to move from his spot.
He parried blows lazily, sometimes with a finger, other times simply dodging with the slightest shift of his body.
And yet, despite the humiliating defeats, Azhriel persisted. After all, how could he expect to improve without pushing himself against an Archon, even if he wasn't taking him seriously?
After every grueling sparring session with Solas, Azhriel would venture into the forest to fight real opponents—mana beasts and monsters.
Each hunt was a battle for survival, sharpening not only his combat skills but his instincts. These beasts weren't just training dummies; they were predators. Their core became his trophies and there body his meal.
His diet now mostly consisted of the mana-infused meat he hunted himself, which helped in strengthening his body further.
In the little time he had left, he learned the basics of survival—how to find clean water, make shelter, and track prey. Without even realizing it, Azhriel wasn't just training to be a fighter—he was also becoming a survivor.
However, in the final stretch of his training, everything came to an abrupt pause. Solas, for the first time since Azhriel had arrived, had to leave.
"Listen carefully," Solas said, his tone unusually serious. "It might take me some time to return. Until then, keep training. Push your limits, refine everything I've taught you."
Then his eyes narrowed, voice dropping like ice, "And do not, under any circumstance, step into the inner part of the forest. You'll die before you even realize what killed you."
With those words, he vanished, leaving behind only the fading hum of mana in the air.
"Yeah, like I didn't already know what kind of atrocities lurk in that damn part of the forest," Azhriel muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.
Still, he didn't waste time. With Solas gone, the responsibility to grow stronger weighed heavier than ever. So, without delay, he turned back to his training—discipline etched into every motion, focus sharpened like the blade he carried.