The morning came with a low fog rolling in from the plains, pale and quiet, wrapping Firsthaven in a damp hush. The fires burned weakly beneath it. Sounds traveled poorly. Footsteps felt close even when they were not. The tribe moved as silhouettes, shapes gliding through gray.
Sophus welcomed the stillness.
It gave him space to listen.
He stood alone at the edge of the training ground, feet bare on cold earth, breathing slow and even. With each inhale, he felt the faint current beneath the soil. With each exhale, his body answered, muscle tightening and relaxing with practiced control.
He did not draw the world's energy into himself.
Not yet.
He could feel it. Taste it on the edge of awareness. But he held back.
Wisdom told him restraint mattered.
He opened his eyes.
Polemos was already awake, lifting stones one by one and setting them down with deliberate care. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold. His movements were smoother now, less wasteful.
Valerius practiced footwork nearby, placing his weight carefully, testing balance after injury. Each step was measured. Each breath counted.
Thalara stood near the children, teaching them how to stand still without fidgeting. She corrected posture with gentle taps and calm words.
Arete Chalybe hammered at a crude anvil, shaping metal slowly, stopping often to feel the heat with her palm. She watched how metal softened, how it resisted, how it yielded.
Alexios Soterios guided two wounded hunters through controlled breathing, counting quietly with them as they inhaled and exhaled.
Aletheia carried water between groups, her steps light, her gaze attentive. She mirrored Sophus's breathing unconsciously, matching his rhythm from a distance.
Chronicus Annales sat on a low stone, scratching symbols into bark. His marks were still crude, but they were becoming consistent. He paused often to observe, then recorded again.
Firsthaven had a rhythm now.
Sophus felt it settle around him like a living thing.
….
He called the hunters together.
They gathered in a loose circle, breath fogging the air, eyes alert.
"Today," Sophus said, "we test limits."
Polemos grinned. "Good."
Valerius nodded. "About time."
Sophus raised a hand. "Not reckless limits. Honest limits."
They quieted.
"You must know where body ends. If you push past without knowing, you break. If you stop too early, you waste growth."
He stepped into the center and dropped into a low stance.
"Watch."
He inhaled deeply, slower than before, drawing awareness inward. His muscles tightened, not from force but from alignment. He lifted a heavy stone with one hand and held it at shoulder height.
The stone trembled.
His arm shook.
His breath remained steady.
He held it longer.
Long enough for pain to bloom.
Long enough for joints to complain.
Long enough for sweat to drip down his spine.
Then he set the stone down carefully.
His arm burned.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the strain echo through bone and tendon.
"This is limit," he said. "Not death. Not injury. Edge."
Polemos stepped forward immediately and grabbed a heavier stone.
He lifted it with a roar, face red, veins bulging.
Sophus watched closely.
Polemos held it too long.
His breath faltered.
His stance wavered.
"Set it down," Sophus said sharply.
Polemos resisted for a heartbeat longer, then dropped the stone with a grunt. He staggered back, chest heaving.
Sophus placed a hand on his shoulder. "Too far."
Polemos nodded, panting. "I feel it."
"Good," Sophus said. "Remember it."
Others followed.
Valerius tested balance on one leg until his injured side trembled, then stopped. Thalara practiced holding stillness under strain, knees bent, arms raised, stopping just before pain became chaos. Arete hammered metal until her hands buzzed, then rested. Alexios practiced steady breathing while holding weight, stopping at the first sign of dizziness. Aletheia followed Sophus's breathing and posture, stopping when her muscles began to shake.
Chronicus recorded everything, marking which movements caused shaking, which caused loss of breath, which caused clarity.
Sophus moved among them, correcting, observing, adjusting.
"Listen to body."
"Pain teach, but pain not master."
"Stop before breaking."
They learned.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
….
By midday, the fog lifted. The sun warmed the ground. Training paused. The tribe gathered for food.
Sophus ate little. His appetite felt strange lately. Less hunger for meat. More thirst for water.
He watched the others.
Polemos laughed loudly, recounting how close he had come to lifting the heaviest stone. Valerius smirked, correcting details. Thalara scolded them both for exaggeration. Arete argued with an elder about metal thickness. Alexios fed broth to a wounded hunter. Aletheia sat beside Sophus, offering him water.
"You eat less," she observed quietly.
"I feel full," Sophus replied.
"From food?"
He shook his head. "From something else."
She did not press. She simply nodded and stayed beside him.
Chronicus approached hesitantly. "Sophus. When you push body to edge. Why not go past."
Sophus considered the question.
"Because body is tool," he said. "If tool break, path end."
Chronicus scratched the answer into bark. "Body tool. Path long."
Sophus nodded.
He felt Wisdom approve.
….
That afternoon, Sophus walked beyond the walls alone. He needed space.
The plains stretched wide and empty. Grass rippled in the breeze. The forest loomed in the distance, dark and watchful.
He slowed his breath and opened awareness.
The world's energy responded faintly.
He let it brush his skin.
A tingling spread across his arms.
He held it there.
No pulling.
No grasping.
Just contact.
His body responded with a deep ache, not painful, but heavy. Muscles felt dense. Bones felt warm.
He exhaled.
The sensation faded.
Sophus frowned slightly.
He tried again.
Same result.
Contact.
Response.
Limit.
His body resisted going further.
Wisdom stirred.
He understood.
This stage was about reshaping flesh. Hardening it. Teaching it endurance. But there was a ceiling. A natural wall.
He whispered, "Body alone not enough."
The wind rustled the grass in agreement.
He felt frustration rise. Not anger. Not fear. A quiet impatience.
Humanity needed more.
He needed more.
But Wisdom cautioned patience.
Not yet.
….
From the forest, eyes watched him.
The wolf stood at the tree line, still and silent.
It sensed the shift.
Sophus was close to the boundary between beast and something else.
Not crossed.
But nearing.
The wolf's ears twitched.
It waited.
….
Back in Firsthaven, Drakon Serpen Invidius moved quietly.
He approached those who struggled most with training. Those who tired quickly. Those who complained.
"You push too hard," he murmured to one. "Sophus force you."
Another frowned. "He say stop before breaking."
Drakon smiled thinly. "He break us anyway. Just slow."
Seeds of doubt fell into fertile ground.
A hunter hesitated at training the next day.
Another skipped breathing practice.
Small things.
Sophus noticed.
Wisdom noticed.
But he did not confront it yet.
He watched.
….
As evening fell, Sophus gathered the main cast again.
"We train body tomorrow again," he said. "Same. But deeper."
Polemos cracked his knuckles eagerly.
Valerius nodded, eyes sharp.
Thalara crossed her arms. "Some complain."
"I know," Sophus said calmly.
"Will you stop them," she asked.
"Not yet."
She frowned. "Why."
"Because understanding grow through struggle."
Thalara considered, then nodded slowly.
Arete spoke next. "Metal break if pushed wrong."
Sophus met her gaze. "Yes. That why smith know when to stop."
Alexios added, "Body same."
"Yes," Sophus said. "Body same."
Aletheia watched him closely. "You near something."
Sophus looked at her. "Yes."
"What," she asked softly.
He did not answer.
Because he could not yet.
….
That night, Sophus sat alone by a dying fire.
He breathed slowly, feeling his body, feeling the limits pressing back at him.
He understood now.
The stage he walked was about forging flesh. About stripping weakness and building resilience.
But flesh alone could not hold the world.
It would crack.
He needed a foundation.
Not yet.
Soon.
He whispered into the darkness, "I see limit."
The fire popped softly.
The wolf howled far away.
Drakon stared into the same darkness from another corner of the camp, envy coiling tighter in his chest.
Firsthaven slept.
And Sophus stood at the edge of what his body could become.