Each morning, they woke to the soft stirring of river mist and cool air whispering across the grasslands. And each morning, they worked.
Rasha followed Talo's lead, learning the names of herbs by scent and touch — the bitter tang of feverleaf, the dry crumble of bloodroot. They gathered what they could, binding them into rough bundles and packing them carefully away.
In the quiet afternoons, they set traps. Simple ones at first — loops of cord tucked under brush — then more complex snare lines stretched between trees. They caught little: a few hares, a groundbird once. Enough to keep them sharp and sharpen their instincts.
In the evenings, when the light grew gold and heavy, they sparred.
At first, Rasha stumbled through the stances she had watched for years — her form correct, but her body stiff, uncertain. Talo corrected her with patient hands, adjusting her shoulders, guiding her weight until her steps began to flow more naturally.
"Good stance," he said one evening, breathing hard after a light exchange of blows. "But you have to move like it's yours. Not something borrowed."
They circled again, boots sliding through the dusty grass.
Bit by bit, the hesitation bled out of her. Her strikes grew faster. Her footing steadier. She learned to anticipate, to react — not just from memory, but from instinct.
Talo didn't hold back. She didn't want him to.
By the third day, their bouts ended with grins, bruises, and a deep, growing respect.
They were becoming more than travelers. They were sharpening themselves into something solid.
When sparring ended each night, they turned to another kind of training: fire.
For precision. For survival.
At Rasha's urging, they practiced using magic like an extension of their hands.
She learned to focus heat into small, exact spaces — boiling water within seconds, drying meat quickly without burning it, hardening spear points with only a glance.
One evening, she carefully coated the edge of one of her daggers with flame — not a wild blaze, but a thin, controlled line of heat. It extended just beyond the stone, like a curved phantom fang.
When she tested it against a branch, the flame cut as surely as steel — clean and effortless.
It didn't feel violent. It felt right — like breathing a little deeper into herself. Like her fire had always been meant for precision.
Talo struggled at first, his fire coming in messy bursts — unpredictable and wild. Several times, the bursts startled nearby birds into frantic flight.
He muttered once, shaking his scorched spear with a lopsided grin, "Yours is a whisper. Mine's a brawl."
But he didn't stop trying.
When his control finally began to solidify, it did so with force. He discovered he could ignite the length of a weapon just before impact — a brutal flash that added weight and danger to every strike.
Later, he managed to direct the flare downward, creating small shockwave bursts in the ground that would stagger anything nearby.
It didn't take long for him to realize the spear wasn't built for it. Too narrow. Too sharp. The fire wanted something heavier.
Before they crossed the river, he told himself, he'd carve something better.
Rasha's fire extended outward — sharpening, reaching like invisible threads.
Talo's condensed inward — heavy and devastating.
"You guide it," he said to her one night, watching the glow weave between her fingers. "I brace it."
They smiled at the simplicity of it. Their magic was growing because they understood themselves — and each other — more deeply with every step.
Each day stitched more knowledge into their bones.
One morning, while foraging along a creek bend, Talo found it — an older tree with bark like cracked iron and heartwood the color of dried blood.
Crimson-veined and sturdy, it stood alone among the willows, untouched by time or rot. He ran his palm along its trunk and felt the fire hum in his bones in approval.
That night, beneath fading stars, he began carving his staff from one of its fallen limbs.
The days blurred together, but each one felt earned. Their routines grew into rhythms — breath to motion, flame to memory. In the low light of early dusk, when the wind carried the scent of damp bark and skyfire blossoms, their sparring took on the feel of ritual. Not just combat — communion.
By then, the staff had become a natural extension of him — shaped by his own hands, weighted for the kind of fire he was learning to wield.
Sometimes, Talo would pause mid-swing to point out the wing angle of a passing hawk. Other times, Rasha would glance up from sharpening a snare to name the stars beginning to flicker through the pale violet dusk.
In these moments, neither spoke of destiny or legacy. They lived in the ache of muscle and the precision of touch. In the silent, shared understanding that they were no longer wandering — they were becoming.
Evening fires were quieter now. Words came slower. But when they spoke, it was with clarity.
"This," Rasha said one night, palm open toward the glowing embers, "feels like something ancient."
Talo nodded, gaze unfocused. "Maybe we're just remembering something the world forgot."
They didn't have to name it. The quiet was its own kind of forge — burning down everything unneeded, leaving only truth.
The river narrowed to a faster, deeper groove. The air grew cooler. The sky vaster.
The world was changing — and so were they.
By the time they reached the final bend in the river, the footbridge came into view.
A thin stretch of weathered planks and rope strung between crumbling stone posts. It swayed faintly in the wind, whispering above the fast-moving waters below.
Rasha slowed instinctively, her heart steady but alert.
They had made it.
And yet... they didn't move closer.
Talo stopped beside her, arms folded, eyes narrowed against the sun.
For a long moment, he said nothing — just stared at the bridge like it was a gate to somewhere neither of them could fully name.
Finally, he exhaled slowly.
"I can't walk you into that," he said, voice low. "Not yet."
Rasha turned to him, frowning slightly. "What do you mean?"
He glanced at her, and for once, there was no teasing in his gaze.
Only quiet, solid weight.
"Before we cross," he said, "there's one last thing we have to do."
He looked back toward the rough hills rising beyond the river.
"We track a predator. Something that won't run. Something neither of us could bring down alone."
His voice hardened — not cruel, but steady as iron hammered to shape.
"And you take it down yourself."
Rasha absorbed the words without flinching.
She understood, even before he finished.
It wasn't about pride.
It wasn't about proving anything to him.
It was about survival.
Talo pressed on, careful but firm.
"Out there..." He jerked his chin toward the rough wilderness beyond the bridge.
"If something comes for you, I might not be close enough. You have to know — really know — that you can face it. That you can kill it. Alone."
Rasha stared at the bridge again, then back at him.
She didn't argue.
She didn't plead.
She simply nodded once, sharp and sure.
"I'm ready," she said.
Talo studied her for a long moment, weighing something unseen — then nodded once in return.
"We'll see."
He turned, leading her away from the road and into the thicker brush beyond the river's edge — into the wild, where hunters moved like shadows and hesitation meant death.
Behind them, the bridge waited.
Ahead of them, the final trial began.