Smoke still rose from the ruins when Iren left the village.
He did not look back a second time.
There was nothing left to see.
Ash clung to his clothes. His hands were scraped raw. His eyes were hollow from crying, but dry now.
Aetherion walked ahead of him without speaking.
Each step the man took felt measured. Controlled. As if even the earth respected his pace.
They entered the forest before sunset.
The trees swallowed the last sight of the village.
Silence returned.
But it was not peaceful silence.
It was the kind that follows loss.
They traveled until nightfall.
Only when the stars appeared did Aetherion finally stop near a clearing.
"There will be no comfort," he said calmly. "If you walk with me, you abandon the boy you were."
Iren's throat tightened.
"I already have."
Aetherion studied him for a long moment.
"You seek strength because you hate your weakness."
"Yes."
"Wrong."
The word struck harder than a blow.
Iren clenched his fists.
"If I was stronger, they would still be alive."
Aetherion's gaze did not soften.
"If you seek strength only to escape guilt, you will break the moment that guilt resurfaces."
The forest wind moved gently through the trees.
"Strength," Aetherion continued, "is not built on self-loathing. It is built on purpose."
Iren lowered his eyes.
Purpose.
The word felt distant.
"I don't want anyone else to die like that," he whispered.
Aetherion nodded once.
"That is better."
At dawn, training began.
No ceremony.
No speech.
Aetherion tossed something toward him.
Iren barely caught it.
A wooden sword.
Plain.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
"You will begin with this."
Iren stared at it.
"A wooden sword?"
"You cannot control steel if you cannot control yourself."
The lesson began immediately.
"Strike."
Iren lunged forward, swinging with raw emotion.
Aetherion stepped aside effortlessly.
The wooden blade sliced through empty air.
"Again."
Iren swung harder.
Missed again.
"Again."
Frustration crept in.
He attacked wildly.
Left.
Right.
Overhead.
Each strike was dodged with minimal movement.
Not once did Aetherion counter.
He simply avoided.
After ten minutes, Iren's breathing turned ragged.
After twenty, his arms burned.
After thirty—
He fell to one knee.
"You swing as if anger alone will make your blade land," Aetherion said.
Iren gritted his teeth.
"Then show me how!"
Aetherion finally moved.
In a single fluid motion, he closed the distance and tapped the wooden sword against Iren's chest.
Not hard.
But decisive.
"If that were steel, you would be dead."
Iren froze.
He had not even seen the strike.
Training did not stop there.
Morning to dusk.
Footwork drills.
Balance exercises.
Endless repetition.
Hold the stance.
Lower the shoulders.
Relax the grip.
Breathe.
"Again."
Every mistake was corrected.
Every lapse punished—not cruelly, but precisely.
When Iren attacked with emotion—
He was disarmed.
When he rushed without thinking—
He was thrown to the ground.
When he hesitated—
He was struck.
Bruises formed quickly.
Blisters split across his palms.
His muscles screamed in protest.
By the end of the first week, his body felt carved from pain.
Yet he did not stop.
One evening, after collapsing onto the grass, he stared at the sky through the trees.
"Why me?" he asked quietly.
Aetherion sat across from him, spear resting at his side.
"Because you survived."
"That's not an answer."
"It is the only one that matters."
Silence lingered.
The forest insects hummed faintly.
"You think survival is coincidence?" Aetherion asked.
Iren did not reply.
"Sometimes," Aetherion continued, "survival is an invitation."
"To what?"
"To responsibility."
The words settled heavily in Iren's chest.
Weeks passed.
His swings grew sharper.
Less frantic.
More controlled.
He learned to plant his feet before striking.
To read his opponent's shoulders.
To conserve breath.
To move without wasted motion.
The wooden blade no longer felt foreign in his grip.
It felt like extension.
But still—
When Aetherion tested him—
He lost.
Every time.
"Frustrated?" Aetherion asked one afternoon after knocking him flat on his back.
"Yes."
"Good."
Iren blinked.
"Why?"
"Because frustration means you see the gap between who you are and who you must become."
Iren lay staring at the sky.
The dream returned to his mind.
The Sages.
The rift.
The sealing.
The whisper.
Balance must be preserved… but at a cost.
He tightened his grip on the wooden sword.
"I won't stay weak."
Aetherion watched him rise again.
And for the first time—
A faint, nearly imperceptible approval flickered in his eyes.
"Then stand," he said.
Iren lifted the wooden blade.
His stance steadier now.
His breathing calmer.
Not free of anger.
But no longer ruled by it.
The boy who had run through fire was beginning to change.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But undeniably.
And this was only the beginning.