Bruce woke to an empty room, though the space still felt heavy with residual heat.
Kael's pallet was neatly made, and the heavy wooden door was cracked open. Bruce lay still and listened. From somewhere below—likely the small, walled courtyard behind the rooming house—came the low, rhythmic whump of displaced air and the crackle of a massive thermal shift.
Kael had outgrown the room. The ceiling clearance simply couldn't handle D-rank fire practice anymore. Bruce smiled faintly in the dim light. The rank advancement wasn't just a status; it was a physical reality taking up space.
He turned his attention inward. The thread was there, humming with a quiet, steady baseline. He didn't push, only listened, and within seconds the familiar warmth bloomed in his chest. It lingered for seven or eight seconds before fading back into the dark. Bruce let it go. He was learning the specific patience the thread required.
