The morning began with steel and sweat.
Victor's palms stung raw from the practice sword, every swing sending little jolts of pain through his arms. The blisters he had earned the day before had already broken, leaving tender skin that protested with each strike. Mira stood opposite him, posture unyielding, arms folded as though she had all the patience in the world.
"Again," she said, her voice flat as stone.
Victor clenched his jaw and lifted the sword. His stance wobbled, the weight of the weapon awkward in his grip. He brought it down in an arc that was more desperate than precise, striking against the wooden post Mira had set up for him. The dull thock of impact echoed through the yard.
His shoulders sagged. "This is pointless," he muttered.
"Again," Mira repeated, unbothered.
He turned, frustration rising in his throat. "You've had me swing this sword a thousand times. I'm blistered, I'm bruised, and I'm no closer to fighting anything than I was when I got here."
Mira's dark eyes didn't waver. "Discipline is not measured in how well you fight when you're rested and comfortable. It's measured in how you fight when you're tired, sore, and ready to give up." She stepped forward, her voice low but cutting. "If you break here, Victor, you will break in the forest. And the forest does not forgive weakness."
Her words struck sharper than any blade. He wanted to snap back, to tell her he wasn't weak—but deep down, he knew she was right.
He lifted the sword again. His grip trembled, but he planted his feet the way she'd shown him, drawing a breath before he swung. The strike landed more solidly this time, the vibration rattling up his arms.
Mira gave the faintest nod. "Better. Again."
The practice lasted until his arms hung heavy as lead. When she finally dismissed him, Victor's shirt clung to his back with sweat, and his body begged for rest. But his mind was restless, buzzing with unease.
It wasn't just the training. It was the memory of the night before—the whispers in the forest, the silver light weaving shapes among the trees. And Liora, her hand warm on his arm, anchoring him when the forest seemed to pull him away.
He couldn't shake it.
Later that afternoon, unable to bear the confines of the training yard, Victor wandered to the stream near the village's edge. He wasn't surprised to see Liora there, crouched by the water, her hands rinsing herbs she had gathered. The gentle sound of the stream and the soft rustling of her movements were a balm after the harsh rhythm of Mira's commands.
"You look like death," she said without looking up, a teasing lilt in her voice.
Victor dropped onto a rock nearby, letting the cool air from the water wash over him. "That's because Mira's trying to kill me. I'm pretty sure she won't be satisfied until I'm a puddle on the ground."
Liora glanced at him sidelong, the corner of her lips curving up. "Or she wants to see if you'll survive it. There's a difference."
Victor let out a groan, though her words reminded him of Mira's earlier ones. "Do you always have to take her side?"
"I'm not taking sides," she said, straightening a little. "I just think Mira understands more than she says. She's not cruel, Victor. She just knows what this world demands."
Her defense of Mira surprised him, but he couldn't deny there was truth in it. He studied Liora in the fading light—how her hands moved deftly among the herbs, how her expression held both warmth and seriousness. Where Mira was a storm, sharp and unrelenting, Liora was steady like the stream—gentle, but not without strength.
For a time, they sat in comfortable silence, broken only by the burble of water and the chirping of birds. Victor found himself breathing easier, as though the weight on his shoulders lightened just by being near her.
But the peace didn't last.
The air shifted, cool and still, as though the world had inhaled and forgotten to exhale. The chatter of birds cut off. Even the stream seemed quieter. Victor's skin prickled.
"Do you feel that?" he whispered.
Liora's hands stilled. Her eyes darted toward the trees. "Yes."
From the shadowed woods, faint threads of silver light began to drift, weaving through the trunks like strands of a spider's web catching the moonlight. They pulsed faintly, breathing with an otherworldly rhythm.
Victor stood, his heart racing. "It's happening again."
The threads gathered, swirling into a shape. Taller than a man, it wavered like smoke, features indistinct but almost human. Its head tilted, and though it had no eyes, Victor felt the weight of its gaze. The whispers rose, faint and urgent, like a hundred voices speaking at once in a language he almost—but not quite—understood.
His chest tightened. That same pulse stirred inside him, the one that had flared against the predators. His feet shifted forward, drawn as though a tether bound him to the figure.
"Victor, no!" Liora's hand caught his, firm and trembling at once. Her grip jolted him back into himself.
The light-being shuddered, its form unraveling. In moments, it dissolved, scattering into the night like embers on the wind. The forest sounds returned suddenly—an owl's call, the trickle of water, the buzzing of insects—leaving behind only silence between Victor and Liora.
He exhaled sharply, realizing how hard his heart pounded. "What was that?"
Liora shook her head, her face pale. "I don't know. But I've never seen it—never heard anyone speak of it. Not like that. Not… answering someone." She tightened her grip on his hand, her voice low. "Victor, the forest doesn't notice people. It shouldn't notice you."
Before he could respond, a voice cut through the clearing.
"Victor."
Mira emerged from the path, her braid swinging, eyes sharp as blades. She took in the scene—the stream, the faint glow still clinging to the air, Liora's hand clasping Victor's. Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"What are you doing at the forest's edge without me?" she demanded.
Victor opened his mouth, but the words tangled on his tongue. Mira's gaze lingered on him, then shifted briefly to Liora. For a heartbeat, something unspoken passed across her face—something Victor couldn't quite read, but it made his stomach twist.
"I…" He faltered. "I didn't mean—"
"Be more careful," Mira cut in, her voice low, almost dangerous. "The forest is not a game. If it's calling to you, that means something none of us can afford to ignore."
Her words hung heavy in the night air. Liora released his hand, lowering her gaze, while Mira's eyes stayed locked on his, sharp as flint.
Victor stood caught between them—between the warmth of one, the storm of the other, and the forest itself, which seemed to draw closer with every breath.
And in that moment, he realized something unsettling: no matter which path he chose, none of them would be simple