Rowan kept his word.

  He trained Joren at dawn in the old east clearing—a small, half-forgotten arena encircled by trees marked with scars from old hunter drills.

  “Again,” Rowan said.

  Joren’s arms burned. Sweat clung to his neck despite the morning chill.

  He swung.

  The blade cut through the wooden post.

  This time, it didn’t explode.

  It split.

  A clean line.

  Rowan watched carefully.

  “How does it feel?” he asked.

  “Like I cheated,” Joren panted.

  Rowan snorted softly. “You did. Reinforcement. Not much, but enough.”

  “It doesn’t feel like I’m doing it,” Joren said. “It feels like… like something else moves with me. Under me. Through me.”

  He didn’t name the presences in his chest.

  He didn’t need to.

  Rowan could read enough on his face.

  “At the Revenant,” Rowan said, “you said you heard them. Here?”

  “Less,” Joren admitted. “More like… flashes. When I almost drop my guard. When my footing slips. They push.”

  “Do they ever pull?” Rowan asked quietly.

  Joren hesitated.

  “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

  Rowan nodded, expression unreadable.

  “Control starts with honesty,” the elder said. “With yourself, if no one else. When this power moves, you don’t lie about it. You don’t pretend you’re fine if you’re not. You don’t wave it away because it scares you.”

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  Joren swallowed.

  “I am scared,” he said.

  “Good,” Rowan replied. “People who aren’t afraid of power get other people killed.”

  Training ended when Joren’s hands began to shake so badly he nearly dropped the sword.

  Rowan dismissed him with a few more notes and a reminder to eat.

  Joren meant to go home.

  He really did.

  But the training field was on the way.

  Old habits pulled him there.

  By evening, the sun bled out into orange and purple along the horizon. The main square had grown quieter. Villagers went about their routines, faces lined with tired grief.

  The training field was empty.

  Joren walked to the center, sword in hand.

  Silence pressed against his ears.

  He planted his feet, exhaled, and lifted the blade.

  Just one more run, he told himself. Then I stop. Then I rest.

  He swung.

  A faint silver-blue shimmer lined the swords edge.

  It bit deeper than he intended into the dummy.

  Wood cracked halfway through.

  Not terrible.

  He could live with that.

  “Again,” he whispered.

  He swung harder.

  The Aether inside him responded.

  Warmth flared under his ribs—the four presences shifting in alarm, not anger.

  Careful, a familiar, steady weight urged.

  He didn’t listen.

  Frustration fed the surge.

  He thought of Bran’s pyre. Sera’s hands going still. Lira’s laugh cut short. Tyren’s half-finished boasts.

  Of being called lucky.

  The next swing never hit the post.

  The energy leapt early.

  Silver-blue force snapped down the length of the blade and off its tip in a rippling wave.

  The practice post split from top to bottom.

  The ground beneath Joren’s boots cracked outward in a small spiderweb.

  He staggered, ears ringing.

  “I—” He stared at the ruined post. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Something inside him bucked.

  The Echoes flared sharp, pushing back hard against the spike of panic.

  Not with words.

  With pressure.

  Joren gasped.

  A pulse of loose Aether shot from his free hand and slammed into a distant target.

  It exploded in a shower of splinters.

  A small gasp came from the fence.

  Joren whirled.

  A girl stood there.

  Thirteen, maybe. Basket of folded cloth in her arms.

  Eyes wide as lanterns.

  She’d seen everything.

  For a second, they just stared at each other.

  “I—” Joren began. “It’s not—”

  Her breath hitched.

  Rising, high and thin.

  His eyes still glowed faintly in the fading light. The ground at his feet still trembled with leftover energy. The shattered target smoked.

  She dropped the basket.

  Cloth spilled across the dirt.

  Then she ran.

  “Wait!” Joren shouted, taking a step.

  The Echoes shoved down hard this time—a wordless stop that halted his foot mid-stride.

  He watched her vanish between houses, the echo of her footsteps fading.

  His hand still tingled with leftover power.

  He looked down at his fingers.

  They were shaking.

  “What am I doing?” he whispered.

  No one answered.

  Inside, all four Echoes had gone very quiet.

  Like they were holding their breath with him.

  The training field smelled faintly of burned wood.

  He sank to his knees.

  This hadn’t happened under duress. Not in a fight. Not against a demon.

  This was here.

  In Graythorn.

  If he lost control like that again—and someone closer than a training dummy stood in front of him—

  He didn’t finish the thought.

  He didn’t have to.

  It finished itself.