The fire was little more than embers when Elias woke.
For a moment, he thought the nightmare hadn't ended—that the battlefield still sprawled around him, that the rain would never stop. But when he opened his eyes, there was only the soft hiss of morning, the scent of damp earth, and a cloak still wrapped around his shoulders.
Kael sat nearby, his cloak hood pulled back. His face, now fully visible in the daylight, was lined but not old—weathered, like stone shaped by years of storms. His hair was dark streaked with iron, his jaw firm, his eyes clear and watchful. He wasn't smiling, but there was a quietness in him that made Elias feel… steadier somehow.
"You slept," Kael said simply, not looking up from the small blade he was polishing.
Elias sat up, hugging the cloak closer. "I… I didn't mean to."
"Rest is not weakness," Kael replied, his tone firm but not unkind. "The dead do not rise. The living must eat, sleep, and endure."
Elias lowered his gaze. The memory of last night—flames, screams, his brother's hand slipping from his—crashed back into him. His throat tightened.
Kael set the blade aside and looked at him. "Grief will follow you. But grief is not the same as defeat. Do you understand?"
Elias shook his head slightly, blinking hard.
Kael didn't push. Instead, he stood and motioned. "Come. There's a stream nearby. You need washing before the sickness takes you."
The water was icy, clear as glass. Elias shivered as he knelt by the bank, trying to scrub dried mud and blood from his skin. His reflection wavered on the surface—a thin boy with hollow cheeks and haunted eyes. He barely recognized himself.
Kael crouched beside him, rinsing his own hands. His movements were precise, practiced. Even in something as simple as washing, he seemed deliberate, like every gesture had weight.
"You see yourself," Kael said quietly, watching the boy's reflection. "But you do not know who you are yet."
Elias frowned. "…I'm Elias."
Kael's mouth quirked, the barest hint of amusement. "A name is not the same as a self. A sword may be called steel, but that tells us nothing of how it strikes."
The boy tilted his head, confused.
Kael's gaze was steady on the water. "Do you wish to be strong?"
Elias's throat tightened again. The answer was there before he thought it. He nodded.
"Then strength will come. Not from wishing, but from work. From pain. From refusing to remain what you are today."
The words settled in Elias's chest like stones. Heavy, but grounding.
The days that followed blurred into a rhythm Elias had never known before.
Kael gave him tasks: gather wood, clean the camp, carry water. At first Elias hated the weight of it, his body aching, his hands blistered. But each time he faltered, Kael would steady him with the same words:
"Again."
"Do not stop because it hurts. Stop when you cannot move."
"You are still alive—so prove it."
At night, when the fire burned low, Kael would speak of other things—of history, of battles long past, of men who rose and fell because they mistook cruelty for strength or fear for wisdom. His voice was calm, even when the tales were bloody. He spoke not like someone reciting legends, but like someone who had been there.
Elias listened with wide eyes, drinking in every word.
One night, when the boy asked, "Did you fight in those wars?" Kael's eyes reflected the firelight.
"I fought in many," he said. Then, more quietly: "And I survived them all. That is why I can teach you."
The first true lesson in combat came on the fifth day.
Kael placed a wooden staff in Elias's hands. The boy nearly dropped it—the thing was heavier than it looked.
"Hold it up," Kael said.
Elias tried. His arms shook.
"Grip lower. Widen your stance." Kael's voice was steady, patient. He adjusted the boy's hands, shifted his feet until Elias stood balanced. "Now strike."
Elias swung clumsily. The staff whooshed through empty air. He nearly toppled forward.
Kael caught him before he fell. "Clumsy. But not hopeless. Again."
So Elias tried again. And again. And again—until his arms burned and tears pricked at his eyes.
When he finally dropped the staff with a gasp, Kael only said, "Good. Pain is proof you are learning."
That night, Elias lay by the fire, his muscles screaming. He wanted to complain, but Kael handed him a piece of roasted rabbit and said, "Eat. Tomorrow you will ache worse."
Elias almost laughed. Almost.
Weeks turned into months.
Kael taught him not only how to hold a weapon, but how to think. How to read an opponent's eyes, how to listen to silence, how to recognize when fear was clouding his own judgment.
"You cannot fight well if you do not first master yourself," Kael said one evening as they sparred in the fading light. His wooden staff struck Elias's again with a crack that sent the boy stumbling. "Anger makes you reckless. Fear makes you weak. Control yourself, and you control the fight."
Elias panted, sweat dripping down his brow. "But what if—what if I can't control it?"
Kael lowered his staff, his gaze sharp. "Then you die. And the world forgets you."
The words cut deep. Elias swallowed hard, then raised his staff again.
Kael gave a small nod. "Good. Again."
It wasn't all training. Sometimes, Kael spoke of philosophy in ways that made Elias's head spin.
"The world does not care for fairness," Kael said once, as they sat by the fire after a long day. "Do not expect it. A man who waits for justice will starve before it arrives. Instead, take what strength you can, and wield it as your own justice."
Elias frowned. "But… isn't justice supposed to come from kings? Or gods?"
Kael's eyes glinted in the firelight. "And where are your kings now, Elias? Where are your gods?"
The boy had no answer.
Kael leaned closer, his voice lower. "Do not place your life in the hands of men who will never bleed for you. Place it in your own."
Elias looked at his small, scarred hands, and for the first time, he thought maybe they could mean something.
Seasons shifted. Elias grew taller, stronger. His strikes no longer faltered, his feet no longer stumbled. His body bore bruises and scars, but his heart carried something steadier than before.
Still, in quiet moments, when Kael's back was turned, Elias would remember his family. His brother's voice. His mother's hands. The way the flames had eaten everything he'd known.
Once, when Kael found him staring into the fire with tears on his face, he crouched beside him.
"Do you think they would want you broken?" Kael asked.
Elias shook his head, choking on his words.
"Then stand. Stand, and make their memory your weapon. Every strike you make, every breath you take—that is how you honor them."
Elias wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "I'll be strong. I promise."
Kael's hand rested briefly on his shoulder. Warm. Steady.
"I know you will," Kael said.
And Elias believed him.
The boy who once hid beneath a broken wagon was gone. In his place stood a student.
A son, in all but blood.
And Kael, the man who had saved him, became the one he trusted above all else.