The wind in this place was not real. It had no source, no scent, no true temperature. It was only the ghost of movement, an illusion of weather remembered but not felt. Arden stepped into the center of the vast, empty training ground, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. A few strands of his pale hair lifted in the false breeze and settled back down. He looked as he always did: utterly calm.
"I am going to push you harder than I ever have before," he said, his voice even and clear in the unnatural silence.
I said nothing. My throat felt tight.
"That tends to speed things up," he continued, pacing a slow arc around me. "Magic is one part talent, three parts understanding, and the rest is raw, unrelenting will. Most people only discover their true will when they are cornered by the very thing they have spent their lives running from."
He turned to face me fully, his eyes unreadable behind his glasses.
"That is why I am removing the potion's effects completely. No more numbing."
The statement hit me with the force of a physical blow. The potion. The one he gave me in the forest. I remembered the strange calm that had settled over me afterward, the way the sharp edges of my grief felt blurred and distant. I had wondered about it even then, in the first town, why I wasn't screaming, why the horror felt so muted. He had known. He had known all along.
"And I am going to bring every buried memory to the surface. All of them. Loud and clear."
A cold dread, sharp and immediate, settled in my stomach. "Why?" I managed to ask, my voice barely a whisper.
"Because what you carry matters," he stated, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. He seemed to search for the right words, his usual silence giving way to a clumsy explanation. "The potion... it was not just for the pain. It was a catalyst. A little push for your Light attribute to awaken. That is how you made that shield in the plaza without years of training. But it also... muffled things. I did not think it would do that, not so much. It was luck that it worked at all."
His admission that it was mere luck, that he hadn't fully considered the consequences, fanned a spark of anger in my chest. This immense power he wielded, and he operated on chance?
"Facing your own pain is necessary," he pressed on, his tone regaining its flat certainty. "It is better to break now and rebuild, than to let a hidden wound cripple you later."
He spoke with a finality that brooked no argument. A part of me wanted to scream that he was cruel, that this was reckless. But beneath the fear, a quieter, colder part knew he was right. His methods were extreme, a brutal shortcut taken by a man too powerful to understand a novice's limits, too emotionally dampened to grasp the full weight of his actions.
He stopped pacing, standing directly opposite me. "You will need a calm mind to cast properly. Not just for today, but for what comes next. I am laying the foundation to eventually teach you sixth tier magic."
My mind stumbled over the number. "Sixth?" The word felt foreign and heavy.
"That is the long term goal," he confirmed. "Not today. First, we build your control, your mind, your will. We start with the lower tiers. Mastery before ambition. But you will understand why the path matters in the end."
He paused, his head tilting slightly. "Magic is divided into ten tiers. Most humans reach the third or fourth. The fifth and sixth are rare, taught in royal academies or reserved for court mages."
"And the higher ones?" I asked, my mouth dry.
"Tier seven," he said, his gaze drifting to the shimmering horizon of his own spell, "is when spells start becoming a major threat to society. You can make forests vanish and mountains split."
He scratched his cheek, a rare, almost sheepish gesture. "Tier eight bends space, or perhaps time. It is difficult to describe unless you have seen it. Or survived it."
Then, his voice grew quieter. "Nine and ten those are not for mortals. That is not battlefield magic. That is divine. If magic has rules, those spells break them."
"Have you…" I began, not sure I wanted the answer.
He nodded once. "I have cast from every tier except the seventh and tenth."
The admission hung in the air, immense and terrifying. I was not training with a man. I was training with a force of nature wearing a human skin.
The world around us shimmered, a ripple passing through the false reality like light on disturbed water. "This space," he said, "is the result of an eighth tier spell."
I had no words. What could anyone say to that?
Then Arden moved his hand in a slow, deliberate gesture. It was like a string inside my chest, one I had never felt, suddenly snapped.
And the world ended.
The gentle fog that had cushioned my mind, the soft dullness that had shielded me from the worst of my memories, vanished. It did not fade; it was torn away.
The storm hit me like a physical blow. I staggered, my knees buckling as the memories surged forth, vivid and screaming. Fire. The smell of burning wood and flesh. My mother's hand slipping from mine. The blood on the floor. The second village. The hatred in their eyes, the way they looked at me like I was refuse. It was all there, raw and immediate, as if it were happening again in front of me.
"Do not resist it," Arden's voice echoed, seeming to come from a great distance. The space between us had stretched, though neither of us had moved. "This test will not stop until you land a hit on me. Fists, magic, it does not matter. I will not make it easy for you as long as you're in a fit of rage. Compose yourself."
Tears blurred my vision, born of sheer overwhelm. I sank to the ground, my nails digging into the earth that was not earth. My breath came in ragged, choking gasps. Why? Why was he doing this?
Then, a spark ignited in the chaos. Anger. He did this. He brought me here. He gave me the potion without a second thought. He offered safety and then ripped it away. He wanted this. He wanted me to suffer.
The thought was a lifeline. I clung to it, using the fury to haul myself upright.
If this was what he wanted, I would give it to him.
I screamed, a raw, torn sound, and launched myself at him. I did not care what form my magic took; I just wanted to hit him, to make him feel a fraction of this agony. But as I reached him, he moved with impossible, infuriating economy. A slight tilt of his shoulder, a step to the side. My wild strike met empty air.
I charged again, light sputtering erratically in my palm. He evaded again, his body shifting just enough to let my arm pass harmlessly by.
I was not fighting a man. I was fighting a ghost.
And with every failed attack, the memories pressed in harder. The smoke, the screams, my parents' final moments. The cold loneliness of the road. The weight of every loss, every cruel word, piling onto my back until I could barely stand.
"You're shaking," he observed, his voice calm.
"Because of you!" I screamed, my voice breaking. "All of this! You gave me that potion! You knew what it was doing!"
He watched me, silent.
"You have the power," I accused, the words tumbling out in a torrent. "You could have stopped it. You could have done something. But you waited. You let it all happen just so you could play the savior."
I took a stumbling step forward. "I never asked you to save me. I never asked to be here. I never asked to owe you anything."
"You don't," he said quietly.
"Then why are you doing this?!"
He moved then, not to evade, but to strike. His palm met my collarbone, a solid, precise blow that sent me stumbling back. Before I could recover, another hit found my ribs, angled to steal my breath without causing real injury. I fell.
The floor was not cold. It was nothing. This was his world. His spell.
"I don't need you to fix me," I muttered, pushing myself up. "I don't need–"
"You do," he interrupted, his voice flat.
"Stop pretending you understand!" I spat. "You don't know what it is like."
"Right," he said simply. "I don't."
Another blow caught my shoulder as I charged. He was not cruel, but he was relentless. He did not hurt me more than necessary, but he did not let up. Each time I fell, the memories surged back, more vivid than the last. I heard the villagers muttering. I felt the grime of the slums on my skin. I remembered the hunger.
And I remembered Arden's face when he first found me, backlit by fire. As if none of it mattered. As if I were just one more broken thing to be collected.
"You expect me to be thankful?" I hissed, tears of rage and grief hot in my eyes. "For this? For you?"
He did not answer. He blocked another strike, turned my momentum against me, and I fell once more.
"I'm not," I said, the fight draining out of me, replaced by a hollow ache. "You are not a savior. You are just another monster who thinks he knows better."
He raised his hand again, but did not strike. The space between us warped, stretching until he was suddenly farther away.
"I am not here to save you," he said, his voice low. "I am here to train you."
The truth of it finally broke through my anger. This was not punishment. It was preparation. The realization left me defenseless. I lashed out again, but my strikes were weak, useless. He brushed them aside, his eyes never leaving me. That quiet, watching gaze. I hated it.
"Stop wasting effort," he said.
I could not answer. Seraphina's lessons on control were ashes in my mind. All that remained was the fire, the loss, the crushing weight of everything I had lost.
"If you are a god," I choked out, the words a raw confession of my own helplessness, "then I would rather kneel to the devil."
He did not answer.
I attacked again, not with skill, but with the last dregs of my desperation. He defended without effort, his palms meeting my fists, gentle but immovable. Each block was a reminder that I was not just outmatched. I was undone.
"You think this is about me?" His voice cut through the turmoil in my head. "No. It is about you."
My legs gave out. I sank to my knees, the memories washing over me in a final, devastating wave. My mother's eyes, wide with fear. My father's last, whispered words. The cold, the hunger, the endless running.
"Why?" I whispered, the fight gone out of me. "Why did you save me if all you wanted was to break me more?"
Silence.
The space between us felt infinite. My body trembled with exhaustion and spent emotion. My hands found the ground, then his boots. Somehow, I was on my feet again, staggering toward him. I raised my arm, not in rage, but in a feeble, hopeless gesture. My fist struck his chest, soft and useless. "You should have left me," I breathed.
Another hit. A weak, trembling push. He did not flinch.
"You should have let me die there."
I hit him again. And again. Not to hurt him, but as if the rhythm could somehow knock the pain loose from my own body.
My legs failed, and I slumped against him. His coat smelled of wind and ozone. "Why are you making me live?" I asked, the question a mere whisper.
He did not answer. But he did not step away.
He knelt beside me, a calm, steady presence in the storm of my grief. "You have to face this," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Pain buried in your heart will only poison you from the inside. It will not take you anywhere you need to go."
I looked up at his unchanging face. A man who used few words, but meant every one.
He placed a hand on my shoulder, not to restrain, but to anchor. "You need to control yourself. You need to face what you have buried. Only then can you move forward. Only then can you grow stronger."
I closed my eyes. The tears came then, not the hot tears of anger, but the slow, cold tears of true sorrow. They fell silently at first, then turned into deep, wracking sobs that shook my entire body. I did not fight them. I let the storm of grief I had carried for so long finally break.
I cried for my parents. I cried for my village. I cried for the girl I had been, who had lost everything and been given no time to mourn. Life had thrown me into a storm and stripped away my innocence without a second thought.
The ground beneath me felt as unsteady as my soul. I was that scared girl again, watching her world burn, helpless and alone.
The man beside me stayed. He offered no empty comforts, no false promises. He simply waited, a silent witness, letting the storm inside me rage until it had spent its strength, leaving only a hollow, aching calm.
When the tears finally slowed and my breathing steadied, the weight in my chest had shifted. It was not gone, but it was bearable. I lifted my head. He was still there. Watching. Waiting.
He waited until the silence felt like a beginning, not an end.
"Sorry," he said. It was not an apology for the pain, but for the necessity of causing it.
He paused, then continued, his voice even. "You are unbottled now. The chaos is closer to the surface, but you managed it. You held together. When you are ready, land a hit. Not a weak one like before. A real hit."
He rose to his feet and took his position again. There was no challenge in his stance, only expectation.
I looked at him, my heart heavy but my mind clearer than it had been in weeks. The memories were still there, but they were quieter now, integrated into the fabric of my being rather than tearing it apart. With a trembling breath, I pushed myself to my feet. The space between us no longer felt like a trap, but a testing ground.
I had to do this. For the girl I had been. For the person I needed to become.
I had pushed through the worst of it. But the pain did not just leave scars; it left questions. Questions I had been too terrified to ask before. The potion's numbness had let me be carefree, but now, with it gone, the reality crashed down with full force.
Why did the bandits come? Why slaughter everyone in a village with nothing to steal? That was not normal bandit behavior. It was planned, targeted. And why was the second village attacked not long after I arrived? And why use dark magic to control ogres?
The thought that had been a fleeting shadow when after I lost my village now solidified into a cold, sharp suspicion. What if my first village was not a random target? What if my parents' death was not just bad luck? What if it was all connected? To me?
I was not ready for the answers. But I knew, with a cold, certain clarity, that I would find them. This was no longer just about surviving alongside Arden. This was my fight. I would learn the truth about the raids, the cultists, the monsters behind it all. Even if it burned me.
I moved forward, my steps unsteady but determined. I walked toward him not with fury, but with everything I had locked away grief, fear, anger, and the stubborn, unbreakable thread of will that had kept me alive this long.
I do not know how much time passed after that.
The false sky remained unchanged, a perpetual, cloudless blue. The ground shimmered underfoot, solid yet dreamlike. Time here was a fluid thing, bending to Arden's will.
We did not speak. We did not need to.
He stood a few paces away, one hand behind his back, the other held open and ready. Every strike I threw now clumsy, but focused he blocked with the same effortless precision. Not to mock, but to measure. My blows landed against his palm, again and again. A steady, rhythmic sound in the quiet.
There were moments I faltered, but I did not fall. I kept going.
And then, it happened.
I stood still, planting my feet, my breath held tight. I focused, pushing past the lingering ache in my chest, past the fear. My hands glowed, warmth buzzing against my palms. And in front of me, shimmering into existence like sunlight caught in glass, a golden wall appeared.
A shield.
It was thin. It was faint. But it held.
It did not sputter or crack. It remained, shimmering and solid and real.
For the first time, I had cast a spell and sustained it. It was not powerful. It was not perfect.
But it was stable. It was mine.
I understood the basics now, not as theory, but as a truth in my bones.
My first real spell.
I stared at it, a faint, weary sense of accomplishment cutting through the exhaustion. This was it. My chance. My mind, now clear of the suffocating grief, saw a new possibility. The shield was stable. What if I could use it as more than a wall? What if I could make it move?
I looked at Arden.
He did not smile. He did not praise me. He simply gave the barest nod of acknowledgment, a silent confirmation that I had passed the first hurdle.
That was all the encouragement I needed. With a grunt of effort, I pushed my hands forward, not to maintain the shield, but to fling it. I envisioned the disc of light slicing through the air, a clumsy, unrefined projectile. The shield shuddered, its form wavering, and launched from my position in a wobbly, spinning arc straight toward him.
It was not fast. It was not precise. But it was an attack born of control, not panic.
Arden watched its approach, his expression unchanging. As the shimmering disc neared him, he didn't dodge. He simply raised a single finger. A needle-thin lance of light, so concentrated it was almost invisible, shot from his fingertip.
It pierced my wavering shield without a sound. There was no explosion, no shattering. The shield simply dissolved into motes of golden dust, vanishing as if it had never been.
The needle of light continued its path, unforgiving and precise. It did not strike me. It did not even come close. But I felt the air part beside my cheek, a whisper of immense power passing close enough to stir my hair. A final, stark lesson in the gap between us.
I flinched back with a shout, my hands coming up instinctively, though the threat was already gone.
"Hey! What was that for?" I yelled, my heart hammering. "You could have grazed me!"
"Your aim was off," he stated, the needle of light vanishing as if it had never been. "And your form collapsed when you tried to attack. You lost your defense for a weak offense."
"That does not mean you shoot a needle of light at my face!"
"It worked, did it not?" he replied, his tone utterly matter-of-fact. "You are aware of the flaw. And you are still standing."
I scowled, heat rushing to my cheeks. He was infuriating. Impossible.
But I did not turn away. I stood my ground, my mind already racing, analyzing the failed maneuver. He was right. I had lost control the moment I tried to be clever. Defense first. Then attack.
I was still breathing. I was still here.
And for the first time, standing in this impossible world he had made, I was not trying to run. I was ready to learn.