Morning came without announcement.

  No birds.

  No wind.

  Only the cold, steady breath of the mountains pressing against Eryn’s skin.

  He stood where the old man had told him to—between two stone pillars that looked less like markers and more like gravestones. The ground beneath his feet was uneven, scarred by cuts and cracks, as if something had once raged here and never fully left.

  “You’re late,” the old man said.

  Eryn flinched.

  “I— I came before sunrise.”

  The old man didn’t turn. He was facing the valley, hands clasped behind his back, robe unmoving.

  “Sunrise is not a time,” he replied. “It is an excuse people use when they don’t understand urgency.”

  Silence followed. Heavy. Unforgiving.

  Eryn swallowed. His body still ached from the previous days—bones sore, breath shallow, muscles screaming in places he didn’t know existed. Training hadn’t been kind. It hadn’t been cruel either.

  It had been indifferent.

  “That stance,” the old man said suddenly. “Drop it.”

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  Eryn realized his shoulders were tense, knees slightly bent, as if preparing for an attack.

  “You’re not fighting yet,” the old man continued. “And that’s exactly the problem.”

  He turned now, eyes sharp but not angry. Tired. Ancient.

  “You think strength begins with motion,” he said. “It doesn’t. It begins with restraint.”

  Eryn hesitated before asking, “Then… what are we doing today?”

  The old man studied him for a long moment, as if weighing something invisible.

  “Today,” he said, “you learn why techniques exist.”

  Eryn’s brow furrowed. “To win fights?”

  The old man smiled. It wasn’t warm.

  “No,” he said. “They exist because fists alone are honest—and honesty gets you killed.”

  He stepped forward, placing one foot lightly on the ground. The air shifted. Not violently. Subtly. Like the moment before a storm realizes it wants to be born.

  “This place,” the old man said, “once burned.”

  Eryn’s eyes widened. The cracked ground suddenly made sense.

  “There was a dragon here,” the old man continued. “And I created a technique to kill it.”

  Eryn felt his breath hitch. “You… killed a dragon?”

  “Yes,” the old man said simply. “And in doing so, I learned something.”

  He raised his hand, fingers curling slowly, deliberately—then stopped.

  “I learned that revenge sharpens a blade,” he said, lowering his hand, “but it also teaches the hand to tremble.”

  Eryn didn’t fully understand. But he felt the weight of the words settle somewhere deep.

  The old man turned back toward him.

  “You will learn that technique,” he said.

  “But not to use it.”

  Eryn stared. “Then why—?”

  “Because knowing something,” the old man interrupted, “and choosing not to use it… is the difference between a warrior and a disaster.”

  The wind finally moved.

  Eryn hesitated, then asked the question that had been pressing against his chest since the beginning.

  “Master… what is your name?”

  The old man paused.

  For the first time, something unreadable crossed his face.

  “My name,” he said slowly, “is a weight.”

  He met Eryn’s gaze.

  “And you’re not ready to carry it.”

  He turned away.

  “For now,” he said, “just call me Master.”

  The stone beneath Eryn’s feet cracked.

  Not from force.

  From pressure.

  And for the first time, Eryn understood—

  training hadn’t started yet.

  This was only the warning.