Zamora kept the weighted staff across her lap like it was a law.
The carriage rolled, wood groaning, wheels chewing the road into a steady rhythm. Garn sat across from her for maybe five minutes—eyes forward, jaw set, that same heat in him that didn’t need mana.
Then he yawned.
Then he blinked slowly.
Then he laid his head against the sideboard like the world had bored him to sleep.
Zamora watched him for a second too long.
He wasn’t recovering.
He wasn’t meditating.
He was just… sleeping.
Like the road was a lullaby and the forge ahead didn’t interest him yet.
Outside, boots hit dirt in a measured cadence.
Damien made sure of that.
“Keep up,” he said without looking back.
Zamora didn’t answer. She adjusted her grip on the staff and walked.
No merchants.
No wandering traders.
No bright cloth wagons and loud mouths.
Only soldiers.
Only supplies.
Only tools.
Picks and shovels. Hammer bundles. Tent poles. Rope coils. Crates stamped with the crown’s mark. Oilskin rolls and spare blades. Bedrolls and iron stakes. Everything needed to cut a forward camp into the land near Log Town like a blade carving meat.
Vyse users took positions without being told.
Damien stayed ahead, eyes scanning.
Amira and Vincent moved on the flanks on horseback, pace matching the caravan like they were tethered by invisible string.
And in the back—on top of a supply carriage like it was a throne made of crates—Titus slept.
Arms folded behind his head. One knee bent. Cloak pulled up like a blanket. His face relaxed and lazy, as if danger didn’t exist in his world.
Zamora had seen strong people before.
But Titus slept like strength was a law of nature.
Safe.
But safe didn’t mean easy.
Damien’s pace was a leash she could feel even when he wasn’t beside her.
Every time Zamora’s steps slowed even a fraction, his voice reached back—flat, strict.
“Keep up.”
By midday, her legs started to burn.
By late afternoon, the staff felt heavier, like it was trying to drag her into the ground.
The carriage rocked over a rut, and Garn shifted in his sleep, exhaled, and went right back to it.
Zamora’s mouth tightened.
Must be nice, she thought.
But she didn’t speak it.
Not his.
Not anyone’s.
That wasn’t her way.
She kept walking.
She kept breathing.
She kept the staff close, because if she let go once, she knew she’d let go twice.
And twice became a habit.
Garn woke when the carriage stopped.
Not because he cared.
Because the world stopped moving.
He blinked, sat up, and stared out as soldiers began unpacking supplies like they’d done it a thousand times. Stakes. Rope. Canvas. Tools. Everything placed with the kind of efficiency that didn’t need conversation.
He yawned again.
Damien didn’t look at him.
Damien didn’t ask if he slept well.
Damien didn’t even acknowledge him as a person.
To Damien, Garn was a problem that moved.
And problems didn’t get pampered.
Garn climbed down from the carriage and stretched his arms like a bored man stretching before a chore.
Then he looked at the nearest crate and considered sitting.
A flicker of pressure passed over the air—thin, warning.
Garn glanced toward Titus.
Titus was still asleep on his crate-throne.
One eye cracked open for half a second, then closed again.
Garn’s jaw tightened.
Fine.
He stayed standing.
They made camp before dark.
Not a real camp. Not yet.
Just a gathering of soldiers and a stripped patch of ground where tents could breathe for a night.
Tools came out.
Stakes went in.
A shallow fire pit dug.
Ropes stretched.
Canvas snapped in the wind.
The perimeter set like a habit, soldiers moving into it without needing orders. A ring of bodies. A ring of eyes. A ring of steel.
Titus did none of the work.
He slid off the supply carriage, stretched like a cat, and walked to the nearest crate.
Then he sat on it.
“Wake me if something fun happens,” Titus said.
His voice carried the lazy confidence of someone who didn’t worry about danger because danger worried about him.
Vincent laughed like Titus had told the best joke in the world.
Vincent always laughed.
Even when his eyes were sharp.
Even when his body was in the right place to kill someone before they finished blinking.
He tossed a waterskin at Zamora. “Drink, shy girl. You’re gonna fall over and make Damien cry.”
Damien didn’t look at Vincent.
Damien didn’t smile.
Damien watched Zamora like a clock watching seconds pass.
Zamora caught the waterskin awkwardly with one hand while the other kept hold of the staff. She drank without meeting anyone’s eyes.
Amira stepped close while she swallowed, gaze dropping to the staff.
“…Why are you walking around with that?” Amira asked.
Zamora stiffened.
“It’s training,” Zamora said quietly.
Amira’s eyebrow lifted. “Training for what? To hit a mountain?”
Zamora’s cheeks warmed. “To not… drop it.”
Vincent grinned. “A noble goal. Truly heroic.”
Amira didn’t laugh. She stepped in, touched the staff lightly with two fingers, feeling the weight like she was reading its story.
“Your grip is wrong,” Amira said.
Zamora’s shoulders pulled inward. “I—”
“Not an insult,” Amira cut in, calm. “A fact.”
Zamora nodded quickly.
Vincent hopped backward into open space and pointed at the packed dirt like he was inviting her onto a stage. “Alright then. Night lessons. Let’s make you less miserable.”
Damien’s voice slid in like a blade. “After she keeps up again tomorrow, she gets less miserable.”
Zamora swallowed.
Titus yawned loudly from his crate.
“Do your thing,” Titus said. “I’ll supervise with my eyes closed.”
Vincent saluted him. “A true leader.”
Titus waved him off without opening his eyes.
Night came.
And with it—sparring.
No speeches.
No explanations.
No theory.
Just the sound of boots scuffing dirt and breath turning ragged under cold air.
Vincent took the space first—because Vincent always took the space first.
He spun his arms lazily and rocked on his heels, a grin on his face like this was a game and Zamora was a friend he wanted to tease into courage.
“Okay,” Vincent said, bright. “Show me how you swing that staff.”
Zamora hesitated.
Vincent wagged a finger. “No hesitation. Hesitation is how you get hit and apologize to the dirt.”
Zamora swallowed and stepped in, staff angled.
Her swing was fast and sharp like she was wielding a halberd.
Her stance was stiff.
But her eyes stayed focused.
Vincent leaned out of the way like it was nothing and tapped her shoulder with two fingers.
“Dead,” he said cheerfully.
Zamora flinched.
Amira’s voice cut through the embarrassment. “Again.”
Zamora reset.
Vincent tapped her wrist this time. “Dead.”
Zamora’s grip tightened.
She didn’t complain.
She didn’t point out how unfair it felt.
She just… tried again.
Amira stepped in behind her, placed a hand on Zamora’s shoulder, then on her elbow.
“Here,” Amira said, adjusting her angle. “Don’t telegraph. Don’t brace like you’re waiting for pain.”
Zamora nodded quickly.
Vincent grinned wider. “Ohhh. She’s getting serious.”
Zamora didn’t respond. She didn’t know how to respond to jokes without feeling exposed.
She set her feet again.
Vincent made it look like play, but his taps never missed. Shoulder. Wrist. Forehead.
Small deaths stacked like stones.
“Dead,” he said again.
Zamora forced herself not to shrink.
Amira pressed her palm between Zamora’s shoulder blades, firm and steady. “Stay present.”
Zamora inhaled.
Longer.
Slower.
Her staff moved again—cleaner, less desperate, more deliberate.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
The wood clipped Vincent’s sleeve.
Not a hit.
But close enough.
Vincent made a dramatic gasp and clutched his chest.
“Oh no,” he said. “I’ve been wounded by my incompetence.”
Zamora blinked, shyly startled by the comment.
Amira didn’t let her enjoy it.
“Again,” Amira said.
Zamora nodded.
Again.
Her feet shifted.
Her breath steadied.
Her grip corrected—just slightly.
Vincent’s grin softened.
“See?” he said. “You’re not hopeless.”
Zamora’s face warmed. She looked down. “I didn’t—”
Vincent tapped her forehead lightly with two fingers.
“Dead.”
Zamora stiffened.
Amira’s hand pressed against Zamora’s back. “Don’t shrink when you miss. Stay present.”
Zamora inhaled again.
Longer.
Slower.
Then she moved again.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t call out Vincent’s habits.
She didn’t point out when his joking made his guard lazy.
She just worked—quiet, stubborn, serious.
And the staff stopped feeling like a burden for a moment.
It started feeling like an extension of her spine.
Damien took Garn like Garn was already late.
He didn’t call his name.
He didn’t gesture.
He kicked the carriage wheel.
The jolt made Garn’s head thump against the sideboard.
Garn blinked slowly, eyes unfocused, like he’d been pulled out of a dream he didn’t care about.
Damien stared at him.
“Up.”
Garn sighed, climbed down, and rolled his neck like this was an inconvenience.
He didn’t look tired.
He looked bored.
Damien didn’t care.
Damien moved.
Fast.
Clean.
A hand shot forward—open palm aimed for Garn’s chest like it wanted to stamp him into the ground.
Garn reacted on instinct.
He slipped back, foot dragging a line in dirt, shoulders turning.
Damien followed.
A knee feint. A low kick. A sudden step-in that made Garn raise his arm to guard—
And Damien’s knuckles tapped Garn’s ribs.
Not hard.
A pinch of impact.
A reminder.
Garn’s eyes sharpened.
He didn’t speak.
He just started moving like he’d finally decided the world was worth attention.
Damien didn’t give him room to build momentum.
He punished every lazy angle.
A light tap to the jaw.
A shove to the shoulder.
A strike that stopped an inch from Garn’s throat, the wind of it raising gooseflesh.
Garn’s breath hitched.
Heat rose.
Flames threatened.
“Oh,” Akash said in his inner world—soft, amused.
Damien noticed.
Damien’s face didn’t change.
He grabbed Garn’s arm mid-motion, fingers locking like iron, and yanked him off balance.
“I am of the same strength as Yona,” Damien said strictly, voice low enough it felt like a knife at Garn’s ear. “The one you barely survived against. You dare try to use your fire against me?”
Garn’s jaw clenched.
He forced the breath down.
He moved again.
Damien punched him anyway.
Harder.
Enough to knock Garn back a step.
Enough to make him stop thinking.
From his crate, Titus watched with one eye open.
When Garn’s next swing came wide—too wide—Titus lazily flicked his fingers.
A thin pressure snapped across the space like a warning wire.
Garn’s arm stopped mid-swing as if the air had become heavy.
Garn froze.
Titus smiled faintly.
“Don’t swing like a ferocious beast,” Titus said, still sitting. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Then he closed his eye again.
Damien resumed like nothing happened.
Garn tried again.
A straight punch toward Damien’s shoulder—
Damien caught his fist, pulled him in, and gut-checked him hard enough that Garn’s breath left like it was stolen.
Garn stumbled back, eyes sharp with anger, lungs burning.
Damien’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time that night his mouth twitched—almost a grin—because Garn was finally exhausted enough to stop pretending this was boring.
Then Damien swept his leg and put Garn on the ground.
Garn hit dirt, blinked, then stared at the sky like it was personally offensive.
“Are you even learning?” Damien asked.
Garn sat up slowly.
Flames surged around him.
A raw flare that licked the air like it wanted to bite.
Damien didn’t smile. “Is this your answer?”
The flames cut out as fast as they came.
“You’re relying too much on me,” Akash said, voice cool in Garn’s mind.
Garn’s fingers dug into dirt.
Titus yawned. “Wake me when he stops sucking.”
Vincent’s laugh carried across the camp. “He’s trying! Let him be dramatic!”
Amira didn’t react.
Zamora didn’t react either.
She just tightened her grip on the staff and looked at Vincent like she was ready for the next correction.
Damien stared down at Garn like a judge.
Then he stepped back.
“Up,” Damien said again.
Garn stood, jaw tight, eyes burning with something that wasn’t fire.
And Damien came at him again.
Morning came with soreness and stiff joints.
Zamora woke, rolled her shoulders, and picked the staff up again without a word.
No complaint.
No question.
She strapped her will to her spine and walked.
The caravan moved.
Damien moved.
And Zamora kept up because she didn’t know how not to.
“Keep up,” Damien said once when her steps lagged.
Zamora’s breath tightened, but she sped up.
Vincent leaned sideways in his saddle, watching her struggle like it was the funniest tragedy ever written.
“You know,” Vincent called, “if you die on the road, I’m taking your staff. It looks expensive.”
Zamora didn’t answer.
Amira rode close, eyes forward.
“Don’t waste breath on him,” Amira said quietly, as if Vincent wasn’t even there.
Zamora nodded.
Amira’s gaze dipped to Zamora’s hands for half a heartbeat. “Grip.”
Zamora adjusted.
Amira’s voice stayed calm. “Better.”
Vincent sighed theatrically. “Look at you two. So serious. So disciplined. I’m going to cry.”
Damien didn’t react.
Damien just kept moving.
Garn woke when the road got bumpy.
He opened one eye, looked out at the treeline, then closed it again.
He didn’t need to be awake.
The caravan wasn’t exciting.
The world was the same dirt, the same trees, the same march.
Boredom was heavier than bruises.
He slept because it passed time.
When the carriage stopped at midday, he sat up, rubbed his face, and stared at the soldiers re-adjusting straps and checking wheels.
He saw Zamora in the center of the moving pack, staff in hand, walking like the staff was tied to her bones.
He frowned, then looked away.
She’s trying too hard, Akash murmured, voice dry.
Garn didn’t answer.
And you’re trying too little, she added.
He still didn’t answer.
But his jaw tightened.
Second night.
Same routine.
Same stripped earth.
Same ring of soldiers.
Same tools.
Stakes.
Rope.
Canvas.
Fire.
Perimeter.
Titus sat on a crate and acted like existing was difficult.
“Wake me if the sky falls,” Titus muttered.
Vincent laughed. “If the sky falls, I’ll wake you so you can complain about it.”
Titus closed his eyes again. “Exactly.”
Damien’s gaze swept the perimeter once, then landed on Zamora.
“Staff,” Damien said.
Zamora stepped into the sparring space without hesitation this time.
Vincent clicked his tongue approvingly. “Ohhhh. The shy girl walked in like she owns the dirt.”
Zamora’s cheeks warmed. She didn’t correct him.
Amira stepped behind her and adjusted her elbow before Zamora even moved.
“Don’t hold tension in your shoulders,” Amira said. “It makes your swing honest.”
Zamora exhaled slowly and loosened the tension.
Vincent grinned. “Alright. Let’s kill you politely.”
Zamora moved first.
Her staff cut the air in a clean diagonal.
Vincent slipped aside with a laugh and tapped her shoulder.
“Dead.”
Zamora didn’t flinch as hard this time.
She reset faster.
Again.
Vincent tapped her wrist.
“Dead.”
Again.
Zamora’s feet shifted—less stiff. More grounded.
Amira’s voice stayed quiet and exact. “Don’t chase his body. Chase his line.”
Zamora blinked—then adjusted her swing to cut the space Vincent wanted to step into.
Vincent’s grin widened like he’d seen a puppy learn to bite. “Oh? That’s new.”
He stepped back anyway, barely, and tapped her forehead.
“Dead.”
Zamora’s mouth tightened—not angry. Focused.
She didn’t shrink.
She didn’t apologize to the dirt.
She swung again.
Vincent’s laughter softened into something almost respectful.
When her staff grazed his sleeve again, he clutched his chest dramatically.
“Oh no. I’ve been wounded by improvement.”
Zamora blinked. Her face warmed.
Amira spoke immediately. “Again.”
Zamora nodded.
And again.
Damien didn’t wait for Garn to be “ready.”
He made him ready.
“Up,” Damien said, and Garn stepped in before his bruises could argue.
Garn’s first swing was cleaner than last night.
Damien still punished it.
A jab to the ribs.
A shoulder shove.
A strike that would’ve crushed his throat if Damien wanted it to.
Garn’s eyes narrowed.
He tried to counter with speed.
Damien stuffed it.
He tried to counter with strength.
Damien redirected it.
He tried to counter with anger—
Heat rose.
Flames threatened.
“Oh,” Akash said again, like she was tired of repeating herself.
Damien caught Garn’s wrist mid-flare and twisted just enough to remind him pain existed.
“No,” Damien said, strict.
Garn’s breath hitched.
Damien leaned in, voice low. “You’re bored all day. Then you come here and want to perform.”
Garn bared his teeth. “I’m fighting.”
“You’re compensating,” Damien corrected. “You can’t land a clean hit, so you reach for the thing that makes you feel powerful.”
Garn’s jaw clenched.
Damien shoved him back. “Again.”
Garn moved again.
He swung tighter.
He kept his breath smoother.
He stayed present.
He still couldn’t land the hit.
Damien swept him anyway.
Garn hit the dirt again.
Titus yawned. “This is exhausting to watch.”
Vincent’s laughter carried over. “You’re exhausting to exist!”
Titus didn’t respond.
Damien stared down at Garn. “Up.”
Garn stood, eyes burning.
Third day.
The land started to smell different.
Sap.
Wet bark.
Smoke.
Log Town wasn’t visible yet, but its work reached out like breath.
The caravan tightened without anyone saying it.
Soldiers shifted closer to supplies.
Tools clinked quieter, as if even iron understood this place listened.
Zamora’s steps stayed steady, but her eyes kept lifting toward the horizon.
The saw-whine came faint on the wind—distant, relentless, like the town was already chewing wood somewhere beyond the hills.
Vincent leaned closer in his saddle, smiling.
“You hear that?” he said. “That’s the sound of a town that never shuts up.”
Amira’s eyes stayed forward. “It’s the sound of money.”
Damien didn’t turn. “It’s the sound of a place that attracts problems.”
Zamora kept walking.
Her hands didn’t tremble when she adjusted her grip.
She didn’t look at Garn sleeping in the carriage.
Not because she didn’t notice.
Because noticing didn’t change anything.
Garn did wake more often on the third day.
Not because he was afraid.
Because the air tasted different.
Smoke.
Work.
Something close enough to matter.
He sat up and watched the horizon through the slats.
Titus still slept on the supply carriage behind them, as if the world could collapse and he’d sigh at the inconvenience.
Garn wondered, briefly, what it would feel like to be that unbothered.
Akash laughed softly.
That’s not you, she murmured.
Garn didn’t answer.
He just watched.
Fourth night.
Same stripped earth.
Same ring of soldiers.
Same stakes.
Same rope.
Same fire.
But the sparring space felt tighter, like the land itself was narrowing.
Zamora stepped into Vincent’s “play” again.
This time her staff didn’t shake.
Her first swing forced Vincent to hop back instead of slipping lazily.
Vincent’s grin grew sharper. “Oh? She’s trying to kill me for real tonight.”
Zamora didn’t respond.
Amira adjusted her stance with a tap to her hip. “Don’t overreach. Cut the line.”
Zamora nodded.
Again.
Vincent tapped her shoulder.
“Dead.”
But Zamora reset instantly.
Again.
Vincent tapped her wrist.
“Dead.”
But she didn’t shrink.
Her breath stayed steady.
Her eyes stayed focused.
Vincent’s joking didn’t fade, but something under it changed.
He started taking her seriously.
When her staff clipped his sleeve a third time, he clutched his chest and fell backward dramatically into the dirt.
“Oh no,” he groaned. “I’ve been slain by a shy girl.”
Zamora blinked.
Amira said, immediate: “Again.”
Zamora nodded.
And moved again.
Damien took Garn harder the fourth night.
Less patience.
More pressure.
He wanted Garn exhausted.
He wanted him at the edge.
And Garn understood it, even if he pretended he didn’t.
He fought cleaner.
He fought sharper.
He still couldn’t land the hit.
The frustration tried to turn into flame.
Akash’s voice cut in, unimpressed.
Crutch.
Garn hated her for that.
He hated himself more.
He swung again.
Damien caught his fist and gut-checked him again, harder.
Garn stumbled, breath stolen, vision sharp with anger.
Damien’s eyes narrowed and his mouth twitched—approval hidden inside cruelty.
“Better,” Damien said.
Garn spat dust. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You didn’t flare,” Damien replied.
Garn’s eyes widened slightly.
Damien shoved him. “Again.”
Garn moved again.
He kept his breath down.
He kept his intent quieter.
He stayed conscious.
He stayed himself.
Titus opened one eye briefly when Garn’s heat spiked, then closed it again when it didn’t turn into fire.
A lazy pinch of approval.
Or maybe just boredom.
By the time the smoke of Log Town appeared in the distance, Zamora’s hands didn’t tremble when she lifted the staff.
By the time the saw-whine reached their ears clearly, Garn was no longer sleeping because the road was boring.
He was sleeping because he could.
Because in between forced sparring and hard marching, sleep was the only quiet Damien allowed.
Titus yawned on his crate-throne, eyes still closed. “If this town is as loud as it smells, I’m going back to sleep.”
Vincent laughed. “You’ve been asleep.”
Titus closed his eyes tighter, as if that was effort. “Exactly.”
Damien didn’t react.
Damien just kept them moving.
Because the forward camp wasn’t a plan anymore.
It was a necessity.
And Log Town waited ahead—loud, ugly, useful—
ready to see what kind of weapons walked into its streets.
