The night stretched long and merciless.
Arin sat slumped against one of the ancient stones, every muscle trembling. His head still rang with the voices, their words echoing like thunder that refused to fade.
"The boy who shattered the sky…"
He almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but the hollow sound caught in his throat. No matter how much he tried to dismiss it, the whispers had burrowed too deep.
Across the clearing, Lyra stood in perfect stillness, her blade planted in the earth. The faint glow from the runes pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat—or was it his? Arin couldn't tell anymore.
Finally, he forced himself to speak. "If… if what they said is true, then what happens now?"
Lyra lifted her gaze, moonlight reflecting in her eyes. "Now," she said simply, "you learn how to survive."
---
Arin blinked. "Survive?"
Lyra stepped closer, her movements precise, as if she carried invisible chains that forced her to measure every breath.
"The shadows will not stop," she explained. "They know what you are. They know what you can become. To them, you're not a boy. You're a weapon they must break before you awaken fully."
Arin's hands clenched at his sides. "I'm not a weapon."
"Not yet," Lyra agreed. "But you will be."
The firmness in her tone left no space for argument. She extended her hand, and after a hesitant pause, Arin took it. Her grip was strong, steadying him in a way that made him hate how unsteady he felt.
"Your power is raw," she said. "It nearly destroyed you tonight. If you don't learn to control it, it will consume you."
Arin frowned. "So what do you want me to do? Swing a sword around until I'm suddenly strong enough?"
Lyra's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Something like that."
---
She led him deeper into the clearing, where the moss had been cleared away to reveal a wide, flat stone. The runes carved there glowed faintly, casting pale light across the space.
"This will be your ground," Lyra said, stepping into the circle. "Here, the voices cannot touch you. Here, you are safe to awaken."
"Safe?" Arin muttered. "That doesn't sound very convincing."
Lyra ignored him, drawing her blade once more. The steel shimmered faintly, though not as bright as when she'd cut down the shadows.
"First lesson," she said, leveling the weapon. "Listen."
Arin frowned. "Listen to what?"
She lunged at him.
---
Arin yelped, stumbling back as the tip of her blade stopped a hair's breadth from his chest.
"What are you—are you insane?!" he shouted.
"Listen," Lyra repeated, her eyes sharp. "Not to me. Not to the blade. Listen to yourself."
Again she moved, faster this time. Arin ducked instinctively, the blade grazing over his shoulder. His heart pounded like a drum.
"Stop trying to think," Lyra called. "Thinking will kill you. Feel."
Arin staggered, nearly tripping over his own feet as she pressed him harder. He raised his arms, as if that flimsy defense could stop her. But just as the blade slashed toward his side, a pulse of light flared from his skin, pushing her back.
Both of them froze.
Arin's arms glowed faintly, threads of starlight curling across his veins. His breath came ragged, but beneath the panic was something else—something that hummed with power.
Lyra lowered her blade, her expression unreadable. "Good," she murmured. "You heard it."
Arin stared at his hands in disbelief. "I didn't… I didn't do anything."
"You didn't need to." Lyra sheathed her sword. "That was instinct. The beginning of control."
---
For the next hour, she drilled him mercilessly.
Strike after strike, Arin dodged, stumbled, and occasionally managed to summon that flicker of light. It came unpredictably—sometimes a burst that knocked her blade aside, other times only a faint shimmer that vanished before it could help him.
His body ached, his lungs burned, but Lyra never slowed.
"Again," she demanded each time he faltered.
"I can't—" Arin gasped, sweat dripping into his eyes.
"You can," she snapped. "Because if you don't, the shadows will tear you apart. Do you understand that?"
Her words hit him harder than her strikes. He thought of the village, of his mother. The screams still echoed in his memory.
He clenched his fists. "Again."
---
At last, Lyra relented. She stepped back, lowering her blade. Arin collapsed onto the stone, chest heaving. His skin glowed faintly, like embers hidden beneath ash.
"You'll learn," Lyra said quietly. "Faster than I did."
Arin shot her a tired glance. "What makes you so sure?"
She turned away, her gaze fixed on the distant treeline. For the first time, her composure slipped, just slightly.
"Because you don't have a choice," she murmured.
---
The night grew colder. Crickets filled the silence as Arin lay staring at the stars above. They looked different now—closer, brighter, as if they were watching him.
He thought of the voices, the chains, the shattering. He thought of Lyra, of her steady grip, of the way her blade sang when it cut through the shadows.
And for the first time, despite the fear gnawing at his chest, he felt something else stir within him.
Not power.
Not destiny.
But the smallest spark of resolve.