Asher's POV
The terrace was quiet in the early hours, the kind of quiet that didn't feel empty but attentive.
I stood at the center, wooden sword resting loosely in my hand, eyes half-closed as I replayed yesterday's spar in my mind. Not the whole thing—just fragments. Moments that lingered longer than they should have.
Darek's thrust.
The weight behind it.
The instant where I'd stepped aside instead of forward.
That moment bothered me.
I moved.
The sword cut through the air in a slow horizontal arc. I watched the tip carefully, not where it ended, but how it got there. Halfway through the swing, I felt it again—that faint resistance, like pushing water instead of air.
I stopped.
Not because the swing was bad.
Because it was almost right.
I adjusted my footing by a fraction, shifted my grip just enough that my wrist relaxed instead of locking, and swung again.
The resistance vanished.
"Yeah," I murmured. "That's better."
It wasn't strength that had been lacking during the spar. It wasn't speed either. Darek had closed the gap faster than before, sure, but that wasn't what stuck with me.
It was timing.
There had been moments—brief, fleeting ones—where my sword arrived a heartbeat later than it should have. Not late enough to be dangerous. Not yet. But enough that I noticed.
I repeated the swing.
Again.
And again.
Each time, I wasn't trying to make it sharper or faster. I was stripping things away—unnecessary tension, extra movement, hesitation I didn't even realize I had.
The sword didn't need me to push it.
It needed me to stop interfering.
That realization settled quietly, like something clicking into place without ceremony. My body adjusted around it naturally, shoulders loosening, stance grounding itself without conscious effort.
I flowed into the next form, then the next.
By the time the sun climbed above the rooftops, sweat dripped down my back, but my breathing stayed even. The Sword Path hummed faintly—not urging, not guiding—just acknowledging.
I paused and rested the blade against my shoulder.
Yesterday's spar showed me something important.
Not that Darek was catching up.
But that the gap between us was no longer wide enough to forgive mistakes.
That was good.
That was exactly how it should be.
After cleaning up and grabbing a quick meal, I headed out into the city. Greenwood felt calmer than it had a few days ago, as if people were settling into the idea that this new world wasn't going to vanish overnight.
Mana lamps flickered gently along the streets. Children chased each other between stalls. Awakeners trained openly in small groups, their movements awkward but enthusiastic.
The park near the central district was where I found Darek.
He sat on the grass beneath a wide-canopied tree, spear resting beside him, arms stretched behind his head. From a distance, he looked relaxed. Up close, I could see the subtle tension still coiled in his posture, like a spring that hadn't fully unwound yet.
"You look annoyingly peaceful," he said without opening his eyes.
"You look like you're pretending," I replied.
He cracked one eye open. "Rude."
I dropped onto the grass beside him. "How's the body?"
He exhaled slowly. "Still feels like it's mine. Which is progress."
"That's usually the goal."
He chuckled, then sat up, rolling his shoulders. "I keep expecting something to feel off. Like I'm going to move wrong and fall over."
"Hasn't happened yet."
"Doesn't mean it won't."
I shrugged. "That's true even before all this."
We sat in silence for a bit, watching people pass through the park. A group of younger students practiced clumsy forms nearby, their instructor shouting corrections that went mostly ignored.
Darek watched them for a while, then said, "Yesterday."
I glanced at him. "Yeah?"
He hesitated, then continued. "There were a couple of times I thought I had you."
"You almost did."
"That's not what I meant," he said. "I mean… I felt it. Like if I'd moved a little better, a little cleaner—"
"You would have," I finished.
He frowned. "You're not supposed to agree that easily."
"I'm not going to lie to make you feel better."
"That's your problem," he muttered. "And mine."
He leaned back again, staring up through the leaves. "You ever get the feeling that training in yards like this isn't enough anymore?"
I followed his gaze. Sunlight filtered through the branches, dappling the grass in shifting patterns.
"Yeah," I said. "This teaches control. Not consequences."
He turned his head toward me. "You're thinking the same thing."
"Verdant Howl," I said.
A slow grin spread across his face. "Knew it."
"It's not about proving anything," I added. "It's about pressure. Real pressure."
"Claws don't care about form," he said. "And beasts don't give you time to think."
"Exactly."
He sat up fully now, energy creeping back into his movements. "So when?"
"Soon," I said. "Not rushing in blind. We prepare. Get permits. Gear that won't get us killed."
He laughed. "Low expectations. I like it."
I smiled faintly. "You always do."
We talked about logistics after that, casually but seriously. Supplies. Routes. The outer zones only. No heroics. If something felt wrong, we pulled back.
For all his bravado, Darek didn't argue once.
That told me more than words ever could.
As the sun dipped lower and the park lights flickered on, we stood to leave.
"You're going to overthink this," Darek said, stretching.
"Probably."
"And I'm going to rush in."
"Definitely."
He grinned. "Good. Covers both ends."
We headed back toward the city streets together, the noise of Greenwood rising around us. Somewhere beyond the walls, the Verdant Howl Forest waited—unconcerned with ranks, paths, or plans.
It would test us honestly.
And that was exactly what I needed next.
Chapter 14: "Sharpening the Edge"