It had been three days since they started training.

  "Close your eyes and start over again," Michael said. "Pull that aura inward, and make yourself feel normal."

  "So this is why there were no bunnies?" Pete tried to adjust his posture, but relaxing and concentrating at the same time was hard.

  "This is why there's NOTHING," Michael said. "No bunnies, no monsters, no boar. Everything's terrified of you." His stomach growled as if to emphasize the point. "And why I'm unable to hunt anything."

  "You need to control it if you ever want to set foot in a human settlement," Michael continued. "And yes, that's why all monsters and animals stay away from you."

  "Why didn't the slavers fear me then?"

  "We're out in the Borderlands. There's always a lingering aura here. From the monsters or from ancient battlefields. Everything here emits a certain sense of danger." Michael gestured at the silent forest. "Weaklings like those slavers can't distinguish one threat from another. On an instinctual level, everything out here wants to kill them."

  "And in a settlement?"

  "Borderlands towns have walls and wards. Those emit safety. "Michael's expression turned serious. "The background danger drops, and suddenly YOU become the loudest thing in the room. People will sense you and most WILL fear you. And fear makes people do stupid things."

  Pete frowned. "So, why aren't you afraid of me?"

  "I would never fear a man who almost died sheathing his own sword."

  "I didn't almost die!"

  "Keep telling yourself that, old man." Michael's grin took the sting out of it. "But seriously? I've seen what you can do. On the other side, I've also seen you trip over your own bedroll. More than once. You're terrifying and pathetic in equal measure."

  "That's not very reassuring."

  "Wasn't meant to be." Michael clapped him on the shoulder. "Now come on. Let's make you less of a walking beacon before we reach Greyport. You might not feel it, but you're making progress. Maybe tomorrow I can go out and catch us something fresh to eat."

  ***

  Tomorrow became the next day. Then the day after that.

  Pete's control improved, but slowly. Within two days, he saw birds flying high in the sky. A small rodent ventured within twenty yards before bolting on the fourth day. By the sixth day, Pete could hear the sound of wildlife buzzing around them.

  On the eighth day, Michael returned from a hunt carrying a Borderlands boar across his shoulders. The thing was scarred, tusked, and mean-looking even in death.

  "Oh my God, that tastes incredible!" Pete said, trailing off as he savored another bite. "The meat is rich and every bite is divine."

  "Even though eight days was a bit longer than expected," Pete added, still chewing.

  "Totally worth the wait if it means watching an old man drool like a toddler." Michael grinned. "But seriously, well done. You've been working hard. Your control isn't perfect yet, but we are getting there."

  Pete swallowed his last bite and set down his portion. "Thanks for the compliment. That means a lot to me. More than I could've imagined it would."

  Silence stretched between them. Awkward at first, then... understanding.

  "Do you have a lot of experience teaching others?" Pete asked after a moment. "It feels like it comes naturally to you."

  Michael stared at the fire for a long time. Pete almost thought he wouldn't answer.

  "I shouldn't tell you this," Michael said finally. "I don't usually talk about it."

  "You don't have to."

  "No, it's..." Michael took a breath. "You shared your story. About Sarah. And everything else. I feel like I need to tell you my story."

  He was quiet another moment, then:

  "I was born in a village called Millbrook. It was a nice place, even though it was in the Borderlands." Michael poked at the fire with a stick. "My parents were farmers. We grew wheat and we even kept some chickens. My little sister, Anna. She was nine."

  Pete's chest tightened. He had a feeling he knew where this was going.

  "I was twelve when the slavers came. It was a big group, maybe thirty of them, all armed and organized. They hit us at dawn, when everyone was just waking up. We were always ready for the monsters, but this..." Michael's voice was flat and emotionless but Pete could see his jaw clench. "Some people were killed right away. The ones who fought back at first. And when we were broken they killed all our elders or "the worthless" as I heard one slaver call them. The rest they rounded up in the village square."

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  "I'm sorry," Pete managed to say.

  "My dad tried to fight. He was a big and strong man, but he was not used to fighting men. They cut him down in front of us. My mom..." He swallowed. "Anna was young enough that they figured they could sell her as a future house servant. Me, I was the right age for mine work or hard labor."

  "How did you escape?"

  "Didn't, at first. They had us in chains, loading us into wagons. But I was small and skinny. I managed to slip my hands out of the manacles when they weren't paying attention. That night, when they camped, I waited until the guards were distracted and ran. I just ran into the forest and kept running."

  Michael stared off for a moment. "I could hear Anna crying for me. Hear my mom screaming my name. But I ran anyway, because I was twelve and terrified and I wanted to live."

  "You were a child," Pete said, looking Michael straight in the eyes. "You did what you had to do to survive."

  "Maybe. But that doesn't make it any easier." Michael shrugged. "I made it to Hell and lived there for a while. Stealing, begging, and eating whatever I could find. Then I tried to pickpocket the wrong guy, an old adventurer named Arthur. Instead of killing me or turning me in, he fed me. Asked me my story. Then he offered to teach me. Not just fighting, but surviving. Just like I'm teaching you."

  "Sounds like a good man."

  "He was. Also a grumpy old bastard, but always fair." Michael smiled slightly. "He taught me swordwork, basic magic, survival skills, how to read and write. Brought me into the Adventurer's Guild as his apprentice when I was thirteen, and we worked together for almost five years. I was very angry at the time and I didn't appreciate him as much as I should've."

  Michael took a deep breath.

  "He died in his sleep when I was seventeen. Old age had finally caught up to him. He left me his gear and his savings, and told me in his will to 'stop being a damn fool and join a party already.'"

  "But you didn't."

  "No. I like working alone. Parties are complicated. You have to trust people, coordinate with them, split rewards. Plus..." He hesitated. "I never found out which slaver group hit Millbrook. Never learned what happened to Anna or my mom or any of the others. So now, I just kill every slaver I can. Figured eventually I'll get the right ones."

  They sat in silence for a while. Shadows danced around the fire as dusk settled.

  "I get it," Pete said eventually. "The guilt. The wondering if you could have done something different."

  "Yeah, I figured you would." Michael looked at him. "That's why I said yes to this whole apprentice thing, you know. Most people don't understand what it's like to carry that weight. But you do."

  "For what it's worth," Pete said, "you were twelve. There was nothing you could have done. And Arthur sounds like he knew that too. That's why he helped you."

  "Maybe." Michael tossed his stick into the fire. "Anyway, that's why I'm solo and why I kill slavers when I can. And that's why I'm teaching a stupidly overpowered middle-aged man to pretend to be normal, because everyone deserves a chance to live their life before the world decides who they have to be."

  "Thank you." Pete's voice was rough. "For that. And for everything."

  "Don't mention it, old man. Besides, this is the most interesting thing I've done in years. Where else am I going to find someone who can accidentally destroy a mountain with a fireball?"

  Pete laughed, and they fell back into comfortable silence.

  Some questions lingered. About Michael's mother and Anna, or about the years between. But Pete understood the weight of a story too painful to tell all at once.

  So he said nothing. Just sat with his friend by the fire.

  ***

  Three weeks later, they were within a few days' walk of Greyport.

  "I'm not giving you another sword," Michael said. "You already destroyed two of my spares and I don't have any left except the one I use. Maybe if you'd just nicked them or even broken them hitting something, I could understand. But you just destroyed them with your grip. No more swords for you. Melee fighting suits you better anyway."

  "That was weeks ago! Don't be such a scrounge. Every adventurer needs a sword. Who's gonna believe I'm an adventurer if I don't have a sword and I can't use my magic?"

  "You know what, old man? When we get to Greyport, I'll take you to a smith and you can buy your own sword. See how you like it when you destroy something you had to buy with your own hard-earned gold."

  "You know I don't have any gold..." Pete said, charging an apple-sized fireball. He threw it at a distant boulder, creating a small explosion. Michael nodded approvingly.

  "That was well done. Your magic control has come a long way, even if your 'basic' fireball is on par with medium-level destruction spells." Michael paused. "But your physical strength? That terrifies me more."

  Pete looked up.

  "I watched you lift a boulder the size of a house and throw it into the sky like a pebble. The explosion when it came down was visible from miles away." Michael's voice was carefully flat. "We're lucky no one came to investigate."

  "Sorry," Pete said. "That was just something I always imagined doing as a kid. It won't happen again."

  Michael looked like he knew exactly what Pete was thinking.

  "Just don't try anything crazy when we're in Greyport," Michael said. "Even though it's one of the biggest outposts in the Borderlands, one of your fireballs could easily wipe it out of existence."

  "Will we be taking a ship out of Greyport?" Pete asked, trying to change the subject.

  Michael looked confused. "Ship? What ship?"

  "You know, for the port. Greyport. I assumed there'd be a harbor or something."

  "There's no port," Michael interrupted. "No harbor, and no ships, not even a river worth mentioning."

  "Then why is it called Greyport?"

  Michael's expression darkened. "Because it's where human cargo gets shipped. Slaves come in from the Borderlands, get 'processed,' then get sent to other settlements or to Hell through the trade roads." He spat. "The 'port' isn't for ships. It's for people."

  Pete felt sick.

  "Yeah," Michael said quietly. "Now you get why I hate this place."

  ***

  They broke camp the next morning.

  Pete rolled up his bedroll carefully this time, and managed to only tear it slightly. Progress.

  "You're getting better at that," Michael said, watching.

  "Took me three tries yesterday." Pete picked up his pack. The leather strap groaned, then split.

  "Mostly getting better," he amended, staring at the broken strap.

  "At least it wasn't the whole pack this time," Michael said, grinning. "I'll fix it when we camp tonight."

  They started down the trail toward Greyport. Behind them were weeks of training in the wild forests of the Borderlands. Ahead, civilization. Or at least, humans and walls.

  And slave cages.

  Pete thought about Michael's story. About Anna, dragged away at nine years old. About children being sold like livestock.

  His fists clenched.

  "Easy," Michael said, noticing. "Remember what we practiced. Control."

  Pete took a breath. Forced himself to relax.

  "Right. Control."

  It was time to see what this world had to offer.

  And time to see if Pete could actually live in it without destroying everything he touched.