Reikika woke before the bell.
She always did.
The Black Post was still wrapped in gray morning quiet, stone corridors holding onto the night's cool breath. Somewhere above, banners stirred faintly.
Reikika sat up on her thin mattress and rubbed her eyes.
Her body already ached.
"Good," she muttered. "Means I didn't waste the night."
More than eight weeks now.
She didn't count them out loud anymore, but her body remembered. The ache had changed—less sharp, more familiar. Like a companion that refused to leave but had learned not to bite too hard.
She dressed quickly, tied her hair back with practiced fingers, and slipped outside before the first bell rang.
Ren was already waiting.
Of course he was.
He stood in the open training yard, arms crossed, back straight, his shadow long against the stone tiles. He didn't look at her when she arrived. He never did.
"You're late," he said.
Reikika glanced at the sky. Then at the bell tower. Then back at him.
"I'm early."
"You could be earlier."
She bit her tongue and stepped into position.
That was their greeting most mornings.
No jungle. No forest. No wide sky swallowing you whole like Midarion described in his letters.
Just stone, dust, walls—and Ren.
The first exercise was stamina.
Always.
Run the perimeter. Jump the steps. Carry the weighted stones. Again. Again. Again.
The routine had etched itself into her bones over the weeks. At first, her breathing had burned, her legs had screamed. Now, it was quieter. Still painful—but controlled.
Ren followed, silent as a ghost, correcting posture with a word here, a tap there.
"Shorter stride."
She adjusted.
"Don't bounce."
She steadied.
"Again."
Some mornings she stumbled. Some mornings she didn't. On the bad days, Ren didn't shout.
He simply stopped.
And waited.
Reikika hated that more than yelling.
It forced her to choose—collapse, or rise on her own.
By the time the sun fully rose, sweat soaked her clothes and her hands shook. She tasted iron. Her vision narrowed.
"Wood," Ren said.
She picked up the training stick from the rack.
It was just wood.
Rough, scarred, splintered from years of punishment.
No blade.
Never a blade.
Eight weeks, and she still hadn't touched steel.
They faced each other.
Ren moved first.
Fast.
Too fast.
Reikika barely blocked, the impact rattling up her arms. She slid back, teeth clenched.
"Again."
She attacked this time.
Her movements flowed without thought—step, turn, strike. The stick hummed through the air.
Ren parried, adjusted her wrist mid-motion with two fingers.
"You're thinking."
"I—"
"Don't."
She exhaled and moved again.
Somewhere around the fourth week, something had changed. Her body stopped asking permission. Her feet found the ground naturally. Her balance held even when Ren tried to break it.
She wasn't striking.
She was moving.
Ren's eyes sharpened every time it happened.
"Better," he said, once.
She carried that word for days.
They trained until her arms screamed.
Until her legs trembled.
Until her vision blurred.
More than once over the weeks, Reikika dropped to one knee and vomited onto the stone. The first time, she'd been ashamed.
Now, she wiped her mouth, stood up, and waited.
Ren always waited too.
When she stood again, pale but steady, he nodded once.
"Good," he said.
That was his praise.
By midday, the Black Post smelled of bread, herbs, and simmering broth.
The kitchen was warmer. Louder. Alive.
Selina stood near the fire, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back loosely. She handed Reikika a knife and a basket of vegetables.
"Sit if you want," Selina said. "You look like you wrestled a wall."
"The wall lost," Reikika replied, and sat anyway.
This place felt different.
Here, no one watched her stance. No one corrected her breathing. The clatter of bowls and the crackle of fire wrapped around her like a blanket.
She chopped slowly, letting her thoughts drift with the rhythm.
Selina hummed—a tune without words.
Reikika realized, with some surprise, that she was smiling.
"You relax when you cook," Selina said casually, as if commenting on the weather.
Reikika blinked. "I do?"
"Your shoulders drop. You breathe like a person again."
Reikika glanced down at her hands. They were steady. Strong. Scarred now, in small ways.
"I like being useful without bleeding," she said.
Selina chuckled. "Fair."
They worked in companionable silence for a while.
Then Selina spoke again, softer. "You're thinking of him."
Reikika didn't deny it.
Every night, when the lamps dimmed and the Black Post grew quiet, her thoughts drifted south. To trees taller than towers. To a boy who talked too much when he was scared and apologized to animals before touching them.
"I wonder if he's eating enough," Reikika said.
Selina raised an eyebrow. "I'd worry more about him being eaten."
Reikika laughed—a real laugh this time.
It eased something in her chest.
That afternoon, Ren took her back to the same yard.
The same stone floor.
The same wooden post.
It had been there every day for eight weeks, even before Midarion's departure.
Watching her fail.
"Again," Ren said.
Reikika swallowed and raised her stick.
Almost three months of this.
She had struck that post more times than she could count. Sometimes the stick cracked. Sometimes her arms went numb. Sometimes nothing happened at all.
"Project your Kosmo," Ren said.
"I am," she said, frustration leaking through.
"No," he replied calmly. "You're forcing it."
She closed her eyes.
Focused.
Her chest warmed. That familiar, gentle heat spread down her arms.
She swung.
Wood met wood.
Nothing.
Ren exhaled slowly.
"Again."
She tried harder.
Her grip tightened. Her jaw clenched.
The stick cracked.
Not the post.
The stick.
Reikika stared at it, breathing hard.
Ren stepped closer.
"You're trying to dominate it," he said. "That's not projection. That's pressure."
"I don't understand," she whispered.
"Stop trying to win."
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she breathed.
She remembered the kitchen. The rhythm. The quiet usefulness.
She let the warmth move.
Not pushed.
Not pulled.
Allowed.
She swung.
The wooden post split in half.
Clean.
Reikika froze.
The stick remained intact.
For a long moment, even Ren said nothing.
Then he reached for his blade.
It slid free with a whisper.
He held it out.
"You earned this. As promised I'll let out touch it."
Her hands trembled as she took it.
The metal was warm. Alive.
Etched near the guard was a symbol—sharp, flowing, unmistakable.
"What's that?" she asked softly.
Ren watched her carefully. "Kaidorin."
Her heart skipped.
"Our kingdom," he continued. "The Kingdom of Spiritual Blades."
Reikika's breath caught. "I'm… from there?"
"So am I," Ren said. "And I knew you were the moment I saw how you moved."
She tightened her grip. "Is that why you trained me like this?"
"Yes."
He met her eyes.
"In Kaidorin, warriors don't wield swords. They merge with them. Spirit and steel become one—ice, water, stone, flame. The sword is sacred. The first blade shapes the soul."
He paused.
"No one can beat a Kaidorin warrior in a sword fight. Not because of strength. Not speed."
He tapped the blade gently.
"But because we are born for it."
Reikika swallowed.
"So Midarion—"
"Walks a different path," Ren said quietly. "Not an inferior one."
She nodded, though something in her chest twisted.
That night, Reikika lay awake.
Her muscles throbbed. Her stomach still felt uneasy.
But her heart felt full.
Eight weeks without him.
Eight weeks of stone and discipline and quiet growth.
She stared at the ceiling and whispered, "I'm getting stronger."
Somewhere far away, beneath a canopy of giant leaves, Midarion would hear of her progress weeks later.
From Theomar.
Spoken with pride.
And a distance that hurt more than either of them understood.
Two paths.
Same stars.
Different roads.
And the journey had only just begun.