24
Training did not end. The morning was spent on strikes and counters, drills repeated until arms shook and skin split. The afternoon brought endurance trials: hauling stones up the tower steps, carrying water until shoulders nearly snapped, holding blades overhead until hands bled. By nightfall, half the initiates could barely walk. Emil’s vision swam, his muscles screamed. But beneath it all pulsed something else—an ember in his veins, faint but insistent. The whispers. They no longer came only at night. Now they coiled beneath his thoughts even as he trained, threading through the rhythm of his heartbeat. Not clear words, but pressure. Urging. Demanding. At times, he felt as though the sword in his hand was not wood but weightless, his body moving more quickly than exhaustion should
- Writer
