The air in Oakhaven didn't just move; it breathed. Rhys adjusted the strap of his hunting pack, his boots silent on the moss-covered floor of the outer woods. For most men, these woods were a labyrinth of ancient oaks that supposedly ate travelers whole. But for Rhys, the forest was a training ground. He moved with a calculated economy of motion that belied his twenty years. His father, Kaelen, had seen to that. While other village boys spent their evenings at the tavern, Rhys had spent his under the bruised purple of the twilight sky, callous-handed and gasping for air as Kaelen pushed him through drills.
"The mind is the first weapon, Rhys," his father's voice, gravelly and stern, always echoed in his ears. "The blade is merely an extension of the intent. If you lose your center, you lo
