Beast Empire

The Training

The training began in earnest when Ethan turned fifteen and a half.

"Your body is ready now," Marlin said one morning, settling across from Ethan by their fire. "And your mind, while still carrying grief, is stable enough to focus. It's time to start strengthening your healing power."

Ethan looked at his right hand still bare, still seemingly powerless. "How?"

"Meditation first. You need to understand the flow of magic inside you before you can control it." Marlin's expression was serious. "Your healing power is weak not because it doesn't exist, but because you don't know how to reach it properly. The death magic in your left hand is loud and overwhelming. You need to learn to listen past it."

Over the following weeks, Marlin taught Ethan techniques he'd never learned before. They would sit in silence for hours, Ethan with his eyes closed, focusing inward.

"Feel the energy in your body," Marlin instructed. "Don't force it. Just observe. Where does it pool? Where does it flow?"

At first, Ethan felt nothing but frustration. His mind wandered. His legs cramped. The grief would surge up and drown everything else.

But slowly, gradually, something began to shift.

He started to sense a warmth in his chest that wasn't quite physical. When he focused on his left hand, he could feel something cold and heavy, like a stone at the bottom of a deep well. But when he focused on his right hand, there was something else. Faint. Distant. But real.

"I feel it," he said one day, eyes still closed. "It's small. Like a candle compared to a bonfire."

"Good," Marlin said. "That's your healing power. Now you need to feed that candle. Make it grow."

The exercises became more complex. Marlin taught him breathing techniques, visualization methods, ways to channel energy from his core to his right hand while keeping his left hand as far away as possible.

"Death magic will always try to dominate," Marlin explained. "It's stronger by nature. But you can create space for the healing magic to work. Think of it like... keeping two arguments separate. Don't let the loud one drown out the quiet one."

Months passed. Summer turned to autumn, then winter again. Ethan practiced every day, sometimes for hours. The grief was still there, it colored everything he did but now he had something to focus on besides the pain.

"You're making progress," Marlin observed one evening as they ate dinner. "I can see it. Your energy is more balanced than it was."

"It doesn't feel balanced," Ethan said. "The death magic still overwhelms everything."

"But less than before. That's progress."

By the time spring returned and Ethan turned sixteen, he'd achieved something remarkable. He could heal small cuts on himself now not instantly, but over the course of several minutes of focused concentration. It required positioning his left hand far from his right, pressing the gloved hand firmly against a tree or rock to "anchor" the death magic, but it worked.

"This is good," Marlin said, watching Ethan close a scratch on his arm. "Your healing is growing stronger. Not strong enough yet to compete directly with your death magic, but getting there."

"How much stronger does it need to be?"

"Much stronger. Right now, you can heal minor wounds with specific positioning. Eventually, you need to be able to heal major injuries even with your left hand nearby. That's true balance."

The training intensified. Marlin brought injured animals to their camp creatures with broken bones, deep cuts, and infections. Ethan practiced on each one, learning through trial and error.

Some he saved. Others died despite his efforts. Each death felt like another weight added to the guilt he already carried.

"Don't let failure stop you," Marlin would say after each loss. "Every healer loses patients. Even your mother, as skilled as she was, couldn't save everyone."

The mention of his mother still hurt, but Ethan was learning to work through the pain rather than be paralyzed by it. The training helped. Having a concrete goal helped. Knowing he was building toward something even if he wasn't sure what gave him purpose.

As summer approached and Ethan turned sixteen and a half, he'd achieved a level of competence that surprised even himself. He could heal most minor injuries, mend broken bones in small creatures, even coax wilted plants back to life. It still required careful positioning and intense concentration, but the healing magic was undeniably stronger than it had been a year ago.

"You've done well," Marlin said one evening, pride evident in his voice. "Your mother would be proud."

The words settled warm in Ethan's chest. For the first time since her death, he could think of her without being immediately crushed by guilt. The grief was still there it always would be but he'd learned to carry it alongside other feelings.

Their life had found a stable rhythm. Wake at dawn. Practice meditation. Gather food. Train healing magic. Maintain the shelter. Sleep. Repeat. The forest provided what they needed. The creatures that surrounded them offered companionship. And slowly, painfully, Ethan was becoming someone who could create life as well as end it.

He was taller now, his frame filling out with lean muscle from years of forest living. His copper hair had grown long, often tied back to keep it from his face. The horn that curved from his temple no longer seemed like a mark of shame it was just part of who he was.

But the glove on his left hand remained. Always. A constant reminder that the death magic was still there, still powerful, still waiting.

One morning, everything changed.

Ethan woke to find his father already up, standing at the entrance of their shelter with an expression Ethan had never seen before. Alert. Tense. Almost afraid.

"What's wrong?" Ethan asked, sitting up.

Marlin didn't answer immediately. He stood perfectly still, head tilted slightly as if listening to something Ethan couldn't hear.

"Father?"

"Something's wrong," Marlin said finally, his voice tight. "I need to go check something."

"What? What's wrong?"

Marlin's jaw tightened. "Something I hoped wouldn't happen. But I was wrong." He turned to face Ethan, and his expression was more serious than Ethan had ever seen. "Listen to me carefully. No matter what happens today, you stay here. Don't leave this shelter. Don't follow me. Promise me."

"What's happening? Tell me!"

"No." The word was firm, final. "You don't need to know. You just need to stay here and stay safe."

"Follow you? Where are you going?"

"I need to check something." Marlin moved to the corner of their shelter and pulled out a dark hooded cloak Ethan had rarely seen him wear. "If I'm not back by nightfall"

"No," Ethan interrupted, fear sharp in his chest. "You're not leaving. Whatever it is, we'll face it together."

"This isn't up for discussion." Marlin's voice was firm as he fastened the cloak. The hood shadowed his face, making him look like a stranger. "You stay here. That's an order."

"But"

"Promise me, Ethan."

Something in his father's tone made Ethan's protests die in his throat. He'd never heard Marlin sound like this, not desperate, not panicked, but absolutely certain of danger.

"I promise," Ethan said quietly.

Marlin nodded, then did something unexpected. He pulled Ethan into a tight embrace.

"You've grown into someone I'm proud of," he said quietly. "Remember that. No matter what happens, remember that I'm proud of you."

Then he released Ethan, pulled the hood lower over his face, and walked out of the shelter.

Ethan stood at the entrance, watching his father's cloaked figure disappear into the morning mist between the trees. Every instinct screamed at him to follow, but the promise held him in place.

The day passed with agonizing slowness. Ethan tried to practice his meditation, but couldn't focus. Tried to gather food, but kept returning to the shelter to check if his father had returned. Ember sensed his anxiety and stayed close, whimpering softly.

The sun climbed to its peak, then began its descent.

Still no sign of Marlin.

As afternoon turned to evening and the twin moons began to rise, dread settled in Ethan's stomach like ice.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly, horribly wrong.

Night fell completely. The fire burned low. And Marlin Gust did not come home.