Kael was still wiping the blade of his Needle-Blade on the filthy fur of one of the corpses when Althéa and Lucanis joined him.

  He lifted his head, a tired smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

  “So? Not too bad, right?”

  He straightened his shoulders slightly, attempting a heroic stance. His uniform was in tatters, his arm was bleeding lightly, and he reeked of sweat and dust. But he was still standing.

  Althéa stopped a couple of steps away from him. Arms crossed, gaze direct.

  “You’re a terrible swordsman.”

  Kael raised an eyebrow, feigning offense.

  “Wow. Not even a ‘well done,’ a ‘you’ve improved,’ a little ‘nice move,’ nothing?”

  Lucanis stepped up beside them, nodding.

  “She’s not wrong. You’ve got good reflexes, a good read on your opponent… but with a weapon in your hand, you look like you’re dancing with a broom that’s too long.”

  Kael blinked.

  “Charming.”

  “You hold your weapon too high,” Althéa went on. “Your footing is stiff, you hesitate between striking and retreating. And your left arm?”

  “What is it even doing exactly? Helping you keep your balance, or just there for decoration?”

  Kael looked at his left arm, as if realizing for the first time that it existed.

  “I… save it for later?”

  Lucanis smiled.

  “The problem, Kael, isn’t your instinct. That part’s solid. It’s your body. It doesn’t follow yet. You learned how to survive, not how to fight.”

  Kael sighed, sliding his Needle-Blade back into its sheath with a weary motion.

  “So what you’re telling me is that I’m a walking miracle.”

  Althéa shrugged.

  “No. You’re just dangerous by accident. And that’s almost more impressive.”

  He looked up at her. She wasn’t smiling. But her tone had softened—just a little.

  Lucanis placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “You’re getting better. That’s what matters.”

  Kael nodded slowly.

  “Alright. In that case, I’m eagerly awaiting my next test subjects. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

  They were about to set off again when Althéa stepped toward Kael, her gaze still fixed on his Needle-Blade.

  “You keep it in your hand.”

  Kael stopped short, intrigued.

  “Now? While walking?”

  “At all times,” she specified. “Until further notice.”

  He stared at her, doubtful.

  “You want me to walk around holding this like some traumatized old veteran? Isn’t that a bit much?”

  “It’s necessary,” she cut in. “If you really want to improve, your arm, your grip, your balance—everything—has to get used to it. Your weapon has to become an extension of you. Not a tool you only grab when danger shows up.”

  Lucanis nodded in agreement.

  Kael lowered his gaze to the Needle-Blade.

  He took it back in hand, more slowly this time. He turned it between his fingers, testing the feel. The hilt still felt too stiff, too foreign. But he understood what she meant. He didn’t control the weapon yet.

  He took a deep breath.

  “You’ve got a very subtle way of telling me I suck.”

  “If I wanted to tell you that you suck, I would,” Althéa replied. “What I’m saying is that you have potential. And that you don’t have a choice.”

  Kael looked at the Needle-Blade for a long moment.

  He kept it in his hand.

  “Alright.”

  His voice had changed. Less lightness. Not solemn—but serious.

  Lucanis gave his shoulder a light tap.

  “Welcome to training.”

  They set off again, shadows stretching out behind them.

  Kael walked on, the Needle-Blade in hand—and for the first time… without playing a role.

  The sun had finished sinking behind the ridgelines. The canyon was washed in a deep blue, almost violet. The colder air slipped into the cracks of the rock and beneath their clothes.

  They found a new rocky outcrop to set up camp. Less exposed. Better protected. The kind of place where even echoes seemed to be swallowed by the walls themselves.

  Kael, crouched near the improvised fire pit, was gathering a few scrawny twigs and dry scraps of dead grass. Nothing very convincing, but enough for a bit of warmth.

  His Needle-Blade lay beside him, neglected, resting on a stone like a forgotten tool.

  “What are you doing?” Althéa called from behind him, her voice dry, almost cutting.

  Kael flinched slightly and half straightened.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “Uh… fire. Wood. Survival. The basics, right?”

  “You’re not holding your weapon.”

  Kael glanced at the Needle-Blade. Then at her. Then back at the Needle-Blade.

  “You want me to gather wood while waving a blade around? I’m trying not to slice my fingers off, personally.”

  Althéa stepped closer, arms crossed, impassive.

  “You think that in a fight you’ll be able to put your weapon down to ‘pick something up’? To breathe? To wait for the right moment?”

  She was staring at him. No mockery. No irritation. Just a cold, uncompromising demand.

  “This isn’t an exercise. It’s your daily life now. Until it becomes natural. Automatic.”

  Kael lowered his eyes to the hilt of the Needle-Blade.

  He reached out and picked it up.

  The metal was warm. Light—almost too light. He tightened his grip, adjusted his hold.

  He sighed, without looking up.

  “And if I need both hands to survive?”

  “Then you’ll survive with one,” Althéa replied, implacable.

  Lucanis, farther off, watched the scene in silence. He said nothing. This wasn’t his role.

  Kael, still crouched, resumed gathering wood.

  This time, his weapon in his right hand.

  Lucanis had gone hunting as night fell, borrowing Althéa’s bow without another word.

  Silence settled around the fire, barely disturbed by the uneven crackle of the twigs Kael had managed to ignite. The cold seeped into the rocky outcrop, biting at arms and necks despite the relative shelter of the walls.

  Kael sat cross-legged, the Needle-Blade resting nonchalantly beside him.

  Althéa, meanwhile, never took her eyes off him.

  At one point, without a word, she stood up and picked up a dry wooden rod—long, supple—caught between two stones. She sat back down slowly, holding it across her knees like a schoolteacher.

  Kael watched her out of the corner of his eye, a faint tension tightening his jaw.

  “What’s that for? Planning to beat me the old-fashioned way?”

  “Let’s say… it’s educational,” she replied without smiling.

  Silence returned.

  The fire crackled. Kael spread his fingers slightly, palms toward the flames to warm them. Just for a second.

  The rod snapped down on his fingers—fast, sharp, precise.

  “Ow! Seriously?!”

  He yanked his hands back, shaking his knuckles, caught somewhere between pain and outrage.

  “I was just trying not to lose my fingers to the cold, okay!”

  “You lost your weapon,” she corrected. “Your hands are more useful when they’re holding something that can save your life.”

  He grumbled, fumbled for his blade, and took it back in hand like a scolded child.

  “So you’re going to hit me every time I relax?”

  “No,” she said calmly. “Only every time you forget why you’re still breathing.”

  Kael stared at her, mouth slightly open. Then he sighed—half offended, half impressed.

  “You know you’re kind of terrifying sometimes?”

  “That’s why you listen to me.”

  He looked down at his Needle-Blade. The weight of the weapon in his hand. He turned it slowly between his fingers, attempted a fluid motion—still a bit awkward.

  Silence fell again.

  She straightened suddenly, in a single movement.

  “On your feet.”

  Kael raised an eyebrow.

  “What, now? We just sat down.”

  “Exactly. It’s the perfect moment. No immediate threat. No one nearby. Clear ground.”

  She stepped away from the fire, the rod still in hand, and looked at him evenly.

  “We’re going to do a little drill. You and me.”

  Kael stared at her, incredulous.

  “A drill? Like… a duel?”

  “Like training. With blades.”

  He sighed and got to his feet reluctantly, retrieving his Needle-Blade. He spun it half-heartedly in his hand.

  “You’ve been smacking me with a stick for an hour and now you want to finish me off with a blade. You really don’t like me, do you?”

  Althéa looked at him in silence.

  “If I hated you, you’d have been dead a long time ago.”

  They moved away from the fire, their footsteps echoing faintly against the rock. The outcrop formed a natural recess, closed on three sides, with just enough space to stand and move a little.

  Althéa stopped near a small pile of stones and picked up a long, straight staff, worn smooth along one side.

  “You can put your weapon down,” she said simply.

  Kael raised an eyebrow.

  “Really? I thought the whole point was that I keep it even when I sleep.”

  “This isn’t a duel to the death. I’m mostly trying to keep you from skewering yourself.”

  He set the weapon down reluctantly and picked up a training staff lying nearby—poorly balanced, but good enough for the exercise. He immediately tried to take a guard, mimicking Althéa: feet misplaced, arms stretched awkwardly, too stiff. His left flank was completely open, and he didn’t seem to realize it.

  Althéa watched him in silence.

  “No.”

  She stepped in and, without ceremony, nudged his back heel with her foot to line it up.

  “Your back foot—slightly angled. Not flat. You need to be able to pivot. Keep your weight centered, not on your heels.”

  Then she tapped his elbow with the tip of the staff.

  “Don’t lock your arms. Bend them. Your weapon has to stay mobile, not rigid. If you freeze, you’re already dead.”

  Kael adjusted as best he could.

  “And now? Starting to look like something?”

  “A little,” she admitted. “But you still have a beggar’s guard. Too many openings.”

  “I’m a work in progress,” he replied, a bit out of breath. “You signed on for the job.”

  She stepped back. Reset her stance. Low, stable, precise.

  “Watch me. Then do it again.”

  He watched her, serious this time. Then he tried to imitate her.

  His legs trembled slightly. His footing was still uncertain. But he held.

  Althéa tilted her head.

  “Good. First rule.”

  She slowly raised her staff.

  “Never show where you’re looking.”

  And she struck.

  Althéa’s staff came down once again on Kael’s shoulder. He staggered back a half step, breath short, sweat beading on his brow.

  “Straighten your elbow,” she growled. “And raise your left arm. It’s not decoration.”

  Kael opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. He didn’t have the strength.

  That was when a faint rustling sounded at the entrance of the outcrop. Lucanis reappeared from the shadows, Althéa’s bow slung over his shoulder and a massive carcass resting across his back.

  He stopped short when he took in the scene: Kael, panting, his face marked with several red welts, and Althéa, upright as a blade, staff still in hand.

  “So… how’s the training going?”

  Kael hesitated, glanced toward Althéa.

  She answered for him, her tone neutral.

  “There’s progress.”

  Lucanis raised an amused eyebrow as he carefully set his burden down on the ground.

  “If he’s still standing after a session with you, I suppose there is.”

  Kael slid down against the rock, the staff slipping from his hands. He let out a long breath, still unable to speak.

  He pointed weakly at the horned animal Lucanis had laid near the fire.

  “And… that? What kind of monster is that?”

  The creature had a thick coat, powerful legs, and two large horns curving backward. It looked like a giant mountain goat.

  Lucanis smiled.

  “An ibex. Not easy to catch. That one led me all the way to the edge of a crevasse before it finally decided to die.”

  “He had more grace than I did,” Kael muttered.

  “Maybe,” Lucanis replied. “But at least you didn’t end up impaled on your own horns.”

  Kael grimaced into a smile. Then he let himself sink fully against the stone, eyes closed, the Needle-Blade held firmly in his hand.

  Lucanis settled by the edge of the fire, drew his knife, and got to work.

  He began by opening the animal’s flank with care, without haste. His movements were clean, precise, silent. He removed the organs one by one, set them aside, wasted nothing that could be used.

  Kael, seated a few steps away, watched him work without saying a word. Fascinated—or simply too drained to look away.

  Althéa was watching as well. Still. Upright. But her fingers were clenched in the fabric of her sleeves, and she had edged a little closer to the fire, almost without noticing.

  Lucanis lifted his eyes toward them.

  “We’ll have enough meat to last until we’re out,” he said, stacking thin slices on a cloth he had spread beside the embers. “No more worrying about hunting.”

  “You should think further than that,” Althéa replied, her eyes never leaving the flames. “We don’t know what’s waiting after this canyon. It could be days with nothing.”

  Lucanis shook his head.

  “No. If we start acting like we’re going to stay here for a long time, we’ll end up believing it. And slowing down. Not happening. We’re not here to camp. We’re here to move forward.”

  Kael looked up, still hazy.

  “You can debate strategy all you want… as long as we eat, I don’t care.”

  Lucanis let out a faint smile and cut a few thicker pieces.

  “Don’t worry. I’m planning a real meal for tonight too. You’ll get your strength back.”

  Kael let himself slump against the stone again.

  “I’m going to need all the strength in the world if Althéa hunts me again tomorrow.”

  Althéa, a little farther away, didn’t answer. But Kael saw it clearly enough: the discreet sigh she hid, the slow way she stretched her fingers toward the warmth, just like he had earlier.

  Even her—despite the mask of control—was exhausted.

  But she held on. As always.

  And that, perhaps, was what impressed him the most.