The training did not begin with power. It began with silence.
Morning settled over the ridge in a dull gray haze, the kind that turned every breath visible and every shadow soft around the edges. The camp was quieter than usual. Even the children sensed the shift in atmosphere. People moved carefully, speaking in lowered voices as if something sacred—or dangerous—was about to happen.
Asarmose stood near the edge of the clearing with his arms folded behind his back. He had chosen a section of the ridge away from the others, where the trees grew thinner and the wind moved more freely through the branches.
Alistair arrived first. Of course he did. His boots crunched against the frost-covered dirt as he approached, exhaustion still visible beneath the sharp focus in his eyes.
Asarmose glanced at him once. "You slept?"
"A little."
"That wasn't the question."
Alistair didn't answer.
