The "Unit of Sorrow" was situated at the deepest point beneath the Academy's mountain. It was not merely a training ground; it was a frigid cavern haunted by the echoes of former trainees' screams. The walls here were not made of ordinary stone, but of a "Null-Magic" substance that absorbed any stray energy, making Sultan feel as though his power were bound by invisible chains.
Eliana stood before him in that cramped room, which reeked of mold and dampness. She had removed her cloak, appearing even sharper under the dim, spectral glow of the magical lamps.
> "Why do you call it the 'Unit of Sorrow'?" Sultan asked, rubbing his hands, which had not known warmth since he set foot on this continent.
> Eliana looked at him, a flicker of bitter irony in her eyes. "Because here, you will learn to swallow your pride and your power until it becomes a lump—a sorrow—in your throat. It will either kill you or forge you into an invincible warrior. There is no room for emotion here, Sultan. In the fight against demons, emotion is an open invitation to death."
The training began. It was not a duel of blades, but a test of absolute focus. Eliana commanded him to light a single candle at the far end of the room using his fire, without melting the shard of ice placed directly above it.
Sultan tried. He closed his eyes and summoned the searing heat of Baghdad, but the power erupted from him like a micro-cyclone, shattering the candle, melting the ice, and vaporizing the water in an instant.
> "Again," Eliana said coldly. "You are trying to control it like a slave, and it rejects you because you do not understand it. Fire is not a tool; fire is your pulse."
The attempts continued for hours. Sultan was drenched in sweat despite the freezing cold, and despair began to seep into his heart. In a moment of sheer frustration, he shouted: "You don't understand! This power isn't mine—it was forced upon me! How do you expect me to control a hurricane living in my chest?"
Eliana stopped pacing. She approached him until her face was inches from his. For the first time, Sultan saw that her golden eyes were not as cold as he had imagined; they held a profound grief, a sorrow shared by those who are eternally displaced.
> "Do you think you are the only one who had everything stripped away?" Eliana whispered, her voice trembling slightly for the first time. "I saw my family crushed under the feet of a demon that left nothing behind but the ash of my mother's cloak. I was placed in this purgatory when I was six years old, and they taught me that a tear is a weakness to be severed."
> She placed her hand on Sultan's chest, directly over his heart. He felt the biting cold of her palm penetrate his clothes.
> "My law is the 'Revelation of Illusions'... I do not see your fire, Sultan; I see your fear. You fear being powerful because you think power will turn you into a monster like the ones we dread. But the truth is, if you do not master this strength, you will protect no one—not in Baghdad, and not here."
Silence fell over the room. Eliana's words were a mirror held before Sultan's soul. He realized she wasn't being harsh out of malice, but because she saw in him the only hope she refused to acknowledge even to herself.
Sultan took a deep breath. This time, he did not reach for anger; he thought of his mother's face, the warmth of the Baghdad sun, and the girl standing before him, hiding her wounds behind a mask of ice. He extended his hand slowly toward the candle. No explosion followed. Instead, a thin thread of calm, orange light emerged. It touched the wick gently, and the candle flickered to life, while the ice above it remained solid and cold.
Eliana looked at the small flame, then at Sultan. She did not smile, but her gaze had shifted.
> "You've begun to understand," she said, turning away to hide her reaction. "But do not celebrate yet. This is a candle; the Seal that protects us is cracking across entire continents. We have a long road ahead."
> As they prepared to leave, Eliana paused at the door and said without looking back: "By the way... the white suits you. It makes you look like someone who saw the truth too early."
Sultan walked out behind her, feeling for the first time that this cold was not necessarily an enemy. Perhaps the frost was exactly what he needed to see his fire clearly. That night, as he lay on his harsh wooden bed, he dreamed of the Baghdad sky—but it was adorned with silver threads that matched his hair, and a red-haired girl held his hand amidst the ruins.