The days stopped counting themselves after the first month.
At first, Midarion tried. He scratched lines into a piece of bark, hid pebbles beneath his sleeping mat, whispered numbers to himself at night like charms against forgetting. But the routine swallowed everything. Morning pain blurred into afternoon exhaustion, which collapsed into sleep so deep it felt like falling through stone. Time became weight, repetition, breath.
Six months passed without Elhyra.
Not a single visit. Not a message. Not even the distant warmth of her presence brushing the edge of his senses.
"She's very busy," Ren said one evening, sharpening a blade by the fire. "Don't make a face like that. You're not the only burden in her world."
Midarion lowered his eyes and nodded. He was older now. He reminded himself of that whenever his thoughts strayed too far into childish territory.
Training began before dawn and ended long after the sun had dipped below the forest canopy. Ren did not ease him into it. He believed easing created weakness. The first weeks were devoted not to fighting, but to stance—how to stand without wasting energy, how to breathe without announcing yourself, how to feel the ground before moving across it.
Between sessions, Ren taught him letters and numbers, using charcoal and wooden boards. Midarion learned to write his name properly for the first time. The act felt strangely intimate, as though each letter carved a place for him in the world. Ren was not patient, but he was thorough.
"You hesitate when you read," Ren said one afternoon. "That means you don't trust yourself."
Midarion frowned at the symbols. "They move," he said quietly.
Ren paused, then exhaled through his nose. "They don't move. You're projecting fear onto ink. Focus."
By the end of the second month, Midarion could read simple passages and count well beyond what he had known before. It was the only part of the day where his body did not ache.
Keel was moved during the fifth week.
They took the young dragon at dawn, guiding him into a vast, hidden enclosure carved deep into the rock beyond the Black Post. It was wide enough for him to stretch his wings fully now, too large and too dangerous to risk wandering eyes. Midarion stood at the threshold as the gates closed, Keel's low rumble echoing through the stone.
"He'll be safe," Theomar said gently, resting a hand on Midarion's shoulder.
Midarion nodded, though his fingers curled into his palm until his nails bit skin.
The third month changed everything.
Ren gave him the wooden piece without explanation—a rough, blunt slab shaped vaguely like a sword, but far thicker, far heavier. When Midarion tried to lift it, his arms shook violently. The weight dragged him forward, nearly pulling him to the ground.
Ren did not help.
"You'll lift it," he said. "Or you won't eat."
Midarion lifted it.
Barely. For seconds at a time. His muscles screamed. His breath came sharp and uneven. The scar on his calf—the place where the snake had bitten him months before—burned fiercely whenever he shifted his stance wrong. By nightfall, he collapsed face-first into the dirt, hands still wrapped around the wooden weapon.
Ren looked down at him. "Again tomorrow."
By the fourth month, something had changed.
The weight was still there, but it no longer felt impossible. Midarion could raise the wooden sword above his shoulder. He could swing it, slowly, with intention. His movements were awkward, unrefined, but they were no longer desperate.
Reikika appeared sometimes at the post.
She knew Midarion was there before she even saw him. The air felt different when he was near. Lighter. Sharper. But she never saw his face. She was forbidden.
"For his well-being," they said.
She accepted it because he had no choice. Still, at night, he imagined her on the other side of the walls, training, laughing, growing stronger without him.
Selina watched more than anyone realized.
She carried her guilt like a shadow, heavy and unspoken. More than once, she almost approached him—almost opened her mouth to apologize for the words she had thrown at him months ago.
But every time she saw him spar with Ren, the words froze.
They sparred every day.
Then came the final sparring session.
Six months to the day.
Selina arrived just as Ren and Midarion stepped into the clearing. She expected the usual—brutal, controlled, predictable. What she saw instead made her stop breathing.
Midarion moved first.
Not recklessly, but instinctively. He circled Ren low to the ground, senses flaring, eyes tracking micro-shifts in balance and breath. His wooden sword cut the air in short, efficient arcs. Ren blocked, but had to adjust—once, then twice.
Selina's heart skipped.
She had never seen Reikika push Ren like this. Not like this.
Midarion lunged, twisted, retreated, then struck again from an angle Ren did not anticipate. His footwork was wild, animalistic, yet precise. Ren grunted as the wooden blade clipped his side.
Finally, Ren exhaled and straightened.
"Enough warming up," he said.
The shift was immediate.
Pressure flooded the space. Ren moved faster, heavier. Each strike carried intent now—not to teach, but to test.
Selina felt it instantly—a pressure in the air. It had taken Reikika more than a year to draw this out of him.
Her fingers curled at her side before she realized it.
Why him?
The thought barely finished forming when Ren struck.
This time, it was not training. It was harm.
Midarion barely blocked. Pain jolted up his arms. His breath hitched. Ren pressed, relentless.
"What about the dragon?" he asked casually, parrying a wild swing. "What do you think happens to Keel when you leave?"
Midarion froze for half a heartbeat. "What?"
Ren struck. Midarion barely blocked.
"The Black Post can't hold a dragon forever," Ren continued.
Midarion's breath hitched. "You promised to protect him."
"We can't hold a dragon. Too dangerous. Too visible. Too wild," Ren interrupted.
"No," Midarion said. His voice shook. "You said—"
Ren struck again. "Released into nature. Or captured. Or dissected. You've seen what humans do to things they fear."
Images flooded Midarion's mind—Keel bound in chains, screaming, cold instruments biting into scales. The memory of labs, restraints, helplessness.
Something cracked.
Midarion staggered back, breath ragged. His vision blurred. Then, suddenly, he stopped.
He lowered his stance.
Ren paused.
Midarion closed his eyes and sank inward, body folding into a position he had not consciously practiced. Breath slowed. Mind sharpened. For a brief moment, everything aligned.
Then, it exploded.
The Kosmo erupted outward in a violent surge, invisible yet crushing. The ground trembled. The air howled. Selina was thrown back as if struck by a wave. Ren slid several meters before planting his foot, eyes wide with shock.
The pressure vanished as quickly as it came.
Midarion collapsed.
When he woke, his body felt hollow.
He had slept half a day.
Theomar stood nearby. Ren leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Selina sat stiffly at the edge of the bed.
Midarion blinked. "What… happened?"
Theomar smiled faintly. "Looks like you awakened your Kosmo."
Ren nodded. "And nearly crushed yourself with it."
"It knocked you out," Selina added softly.
Midarion swallowed. "Keel?"
"You survived," Ren said. "That's what mattered."
"You don't have time to learn how to properly control it," Theomar said. "Three days remaining until Astraelis."
He then stepped forward. "Which is why we'll use them well."
Midarion stared at his hands, still trembling.
Something inside him had woken.
And it would not be silent again.