The mountain air was crisp that morning, sharp with the scent of pine and the soft smoke of burning cedar. Bravae crouched low beside the stream, washing his face in the freezing water that trickled down from the snow-capped peaks. It was early, the sky still bleeding orange along the ridges. Behind him, a faint rustling marked the approach of Indumae, staff in hand, his long white robe brushing the rocky ground.
"You're up early," Indumae said.
Bravae turned and wiped his face with a worn cloth. "Couldn't sleep."
Indumae nodded knowingly. "The sword speaks to the restless." He gestured up the narrow trail. "Come. Today, we begin."
The clearing they arrived at was hidden beneath a crescent of boulders and leaning pines. A circle had been drawn into the earth—an ancient pattern, with symbols Bravae didn't recognize etched into the soil. The Sword of Bamono lay at the center, its black-metal surface pulsing faintly like a quiet heart.
"Pick it up," Indumae said.
Bravae hesitated. The last time he'd held it, nothing had happened. The sword had lain dormant, cold in his grip, when Rumein had needed him most. He stepped forward anyway, kneeling and wrapping his fingers around the hilt. It was heavier than he remembered.
"Now listen," Indumae instructed. "Close your eyes. Breathe. Let the mountain fill you."
Bravae obeyed, inhaling slowly. The wind stirred his tunic. Somewhere above, a hawk cried. He tried to center himself, to find that place Indumae always spoke of—the well of stillness. But his mind buzzed with guilt, with failure.
"What do you feel?" Indumae asked.
"Nothing. Just... noise."
Indumae crouched beside him. "The sword does not answer to power or strength. It listens to purpose. To pain."
Bravae opened his eyes. "Pain?"
"Yes. The deepest kind. The kind that calls out for change. That night in the forest, your heart wanted to save Rumein—but fear clouded you. You must understand, Bravae. Sometimes the sword awakens through trauma. Other times, through an overwhelming desire to do good."
Bravae looked down at the blade. Its runes were faint now, like fading stars.
"So what do I do?"
"You learn to find stillness. To listen. To will yourself toward the good." Indumae stood. "We'll try meditation. Sit. Straight spine. Hands on knees."
Bravae struggled to follow. First, his legs cramped. Then he couldn't stop fidgeting. His thoughts drifted to the village below, to his aunt, to Orvae. He opened one eye.
"You're thinking again," Indumae said without looking.
"I'm trying."
"Trying is thinking. Being is something else."
They continued for hours. The sun rose higher. Still, the sword remained silent.
Finally, Indumae sighed. "Enough for today. Go. Eat something. Rest your mind."
Bravae stood with relief, his knees aching. He glanced at the sword one last time before leaving the circle.
The campfire was already crackling by the time evening came. Orvae sat beside it, carving shapes into a piece of bark with his dagger. He'd said little all day, keeping mostly to himself, watching Bravae train from afar.
"You didn't want to join us?" Bravae asked, taking a seat across from him.
Orvae shrugged. "That sword's not mine."
"Still. You've been quiet."
"Just thinking. About home. About whether this is even real."
Bravae gave a wry smile. "It feels real."
From behind them, Merab approached, balancing a clay bowl of boiled roots and spiced goat. She handed one to Bravae, then to Orvae. "You both look like ghosts. Eat."
Bravae smiled. "Thanks."
Merab sat beside him, her dark hair tied back, her eyes reflecting the firelight. For a while, the three of them ate in silence, the sounds of nightbirds and crackling logs filling the air. Then Orvae stood, mumbling something about checking the traps, and disappeared into the shadows.
Merab turned slightly toward Bravae. "You're frustrated."
He looked at her, surprised. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who's been where you are."
"You trained with Indumae too?"
She nodded. "For a time. But my path is different. The sword didn't choose me."
Bravae traced a finger around the edge of his bowl. "I'm not even sure it's chosen me."
"It has. Or it wouldn't have answered at all, even faintly."
Bravae looked up. "So what if I never learn how to use it? What if I keep failing?"
Merab was silent for a moment. Then she said, "Failure isn't the end. It's the forge."
That made him smile. "Is that something Indumae says?"
"No," she replied, smiling back. "That one's mine."
They sat a while longer, talking of small things—of her family in the south, of Bravae's life in Norea, of the festival dances he always messed up. Slowly, the gap between them closed, not physically, but in the warm rhythm of their words. It was a comfort Bravae hadn't realized he needed.
When the fire died down, they said goodnight, and he returned to his sleeping mat under the stars.
Morning came with a silver mist that hugged the cliffs. Bravae rose, stretching his sore limbs. Orvae was already awake, tending to a snare line with Merab. Bravae made his way to the upper terrace where Indumae stood facing the valley.
"You're up early again," the old master said.
Bravae nodded. "I couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind."
"That's normal."
There was a pause. Then Bravae cleared his throat.
"Indumae... I think Orvae and I should return to town. Our guardians must be worried sick. It's been days."
Indumae did not turn around.
"You are not ready."
"But—"
"This place is hidden for a reason. If you leave now, you risk everything."
Behind them, Gbavamy arrived, his expression grim. "He's right. The Braunians patrol the outer forests. They'd sense your presence like smoke."
Bravae frowned. "But we can't stay here forever."
"No," Indumae said. "But you must stay until you are more than just a boy with a sword."
Bravae lowered his eyes. The weight of destiny—if such a thing existed—settled on his shoulders again. But deep inside, a tiny ember stirred.
Perhaps tomorrow, the sword would answer.