The Tile River cut through the eastern badlands like a scar that refused to heal.

  Gray stood at the edge of the water, bare feet in the cool mud, watching the current pull small pieces of driftwood downstream. The river was narrow here, maybe twenty paces across, but deep enough in the middle to swallow a man whole if he wasn’t careful. On both sides, the rocky ground sloped gently upward into the jagged badlands that surrounded Camp Tile. To the west, the horizon was stained dark — the distant silhouette of Ashfall’s crater rim, always leaking a thin column of smoke and ash into the sky. To the east, the land rose toward the sharp peaks that framed the Dragon’s Spine Bridge and Rift Spire, where Orihara’s patrols sometimes appeared like ghosts on the horizon.

  Camp Tile itself clung to the riverbank like a stubborn weed. It wasn’t a town. It was barely a settlement. A loose collection of patched huts, leaning tents, and a few stone-and-wood buildings that had survived the last flood. The air smelled of wet earth, drying fish, and the faint metallic tang of ley stones being traded in the small market square. Smoke rose from cook fires. Children laughed near the shallows until someone shouted a warning about monsters in the deeper pools. Travelers passed through every day — caravans from Ryūmon, bounty hunters heading toward Ashfall, small groups of righteous disciples or knights from distant lands looking for relics or safe passage. Some stayed a night. Most kept moving. The ones who stayed too long usually ended up buried near the river or dragged back into Ashfall by bandits.

  Gray was thirteen. He had lived here for as long as he could remember — ever since Gauis and Rebecca had brought him and Tamemoto to this fragile strip of land after their power broke. The camp was safer than Ashfall’s crater, but not by much. The Tile River gave them water and fish. The road gave them work — repairing gear, escorting small caravans a few miles, scavenging ruins too dangerous for most. But every day was a reminder that the world was bigger, crueler, and always watching.

  He bent down, scooped a handful of river stones, and skipped one across the water. It bounced four times before sinking. Not bad.

  Behind him, the camp stirred to life.

  Tamemoto — his step-brother, eleven years old — was already at the river’s edge a little downstream, trying to spear fish with a sharpened stick. The boy was small for his age, dark hair falling into his eyes, movements still clumsy from the nightmares that woke him most nights. He missed again. The stick splashed uselessly. Tamemoto muttered something under his breath and tried once more.

  Gray watched him for a moment. Tamemoto had been rescued three years ago — used as currency in a criminal trade deal gone wrong. The fight that saved him had cost Gauis his strength and left Rebecca with the sickness that never left her. Gray didn’t talk about it. Neither did Tamemoto. Some things were better left in the dark.

  “Try lower,” Gray called out, voice flat but not unkind. “The fish see the shadow first.”

  Tamemoto glanced over, nodded, and adjusted his stance. The next thrust was better. He missed again, but closer.

  From the hut behind them, Rebecca’s voice drifted out — soft, hoarse, but steady.

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  “Boys. Breakfast is ready. Don’t let it get cold.”

  Gray turned. The small hut they called home was one of the sturdier ones — patched walls, a sloped roof of scavenged tiles, and a small porch overlooking the river. Rebecca stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a cloth. She looked tired today, the circles under her eyes darker than yesterday, but she smiled when she saw them.

  Gauis was inside, sitting at the low table they had built from driftwood. He was sharpening a knife again — the same slow, deliberate motion he did every morning. The old knight commander’s once-powerful frame was thinner now, his left arm still wrapped in cloth from the wound that never healed right. His good eye flicked up as Gray and Tamemoto entered.

  “Any luck with the fish?” Gauis asked, voice rough but warm.

  Tamemoto shook his head, embarrassed.

  Gauis chuckled softly. “You’ll get it. Patience is half the battle.”

  Rebecca set two bowls of thin porridge mixed with river herbs in front of them. She moved carefully, as if every step hurt. The sickness had taken more from her lately — the cough was worse, the tremors in her hands harder to hide.

  “Eat,” she said gently. “You both need strength today.”

  Gray sat. He ate slowly, tasting the faint bitterness of the herbs. Tamemoto ate faster, eyes on his bowl.

  After a few bites, Rebecca sat across from them. Her voice was quiet but steady.

  “Today we talk about the world again,” she said. “Not just how to survive it. How to see it.”

  Gauis set the knife down. He looked at both boys.

  “The world is not kind,” he said. “It doesn’t care if you’re strong or weak. It only cares if you’re smart enough to stay alive. That’s why we teach you both the same thing every day — tactics, emotions, and the truth about what’s out there.”

  Gray listened. He always did.

  Gauis continued. “Battle isn’t about being the strongest. It’s about seeing what others miss. A loose rock on the ground. A torn cloak on your enemy. The way the wind blows ash into someone’s eyes. Use everything. Never fight fair if you can help it.”

  Rebecca nodded, her hand resting on the table. “And emotions,” she said softly. “They’re weapons too. Fear can make you sloppy. Anger can make you blind. But if you control them, they become strength. The world is scary, boys. It will try to break you. The only way to win is to understand that fear… and keep moving anyway.”

  Tamemoto looked up. His voice was small. “Is it really that scary outside Camp Tile?”

  Gauis smiled sadly. “Scarier than you can imagine. But you’re not alone in it.”

  Gray didn’t speak. He just ate. The words settled in his chest like stones.

  After breakfast, they stepped outside.

  The sun was higher now. Travelers were already moving along the road — a small caravan from Ryūmon heading east, two disciples in white robes walking the other way. Gray watched them pass. Some nodded politely. Others kept their eyes down.

  Gauis stood beside him. “Today we practice again. Aura for you. Basic forms for Tamemoto. Then we help at the market. Earn what we can.”

  Gray nodded.

  Rebecca touched his shoulder lightly. “And remember — you’re not just learning to fight. You’re learning to live.”

  Gray looked at the river. The current moved steadily, carrying small pieces of the world downstream.

  He didn’t answer.

  But he remembered.

  Ash kept falling in the distance — a thin gray haze over Ashfall’s crater.

  But here, in Camp Tile, the river kept flowing.

  And Gray kept learning.