Date: August 21, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The second day in the tower began like the first — with the pulsing light of the lines on the floor and the quiet, measured voice of the old man, who was already waiting for them on the central platform. The group approached him with varying degrees of alertness: Ulvia, accustomed to early rising, was focused; Datuk yawned and rubbed his stiff legs; Sobra looked as if he hadn't slept at all — his amber eyes were clear and attentive; Rosh, as always, seemed carved from stone.
"Today you will continue," the old man said without greeting. "And you must understand one thing. This method does not obey willpower. It does not obey desire. It obeys only patience. And patience is not something you can force yourself to feel. It comes on its own. Or it doesn't."
He pointed to the tracks — the same circles of glowing lines.
"Let's begin. Each to your own track. Three circles. Not fast. Not slow. The energy must flow evenly."
---
Ulvia stepped onto her track. Yesterday, by the end of the day, she had felt she almost caught the rhythm — almost learned to gather energy in her feet, not exploding it, but releasing it in a smooth stream. Today, that feeling was gone.
First circle. She took a few steps — the energy obediently gathered in her legs, and she felt the familiar lightness. But in the middle of the circle, something clicked. The energy, previously even and calm, suddenly surged upward, toward her knees, her thighs, and Ulvia, losing her balance, left the line.
"Good start," the old man said, approaching. "The continuation — not so much. You lost concentration. Not on your thoughts — on the feeling. You started thinking about how you were walking instead of just walking."
"I'm trying not to think," Ulvia replied, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
"Trying is also thinking," the old man shook his head. "Stop trying. Just do."
She tried again. Took five steps — left the line. Again — three steps. Again — two. Worse with each attempt. By mid-morning, she couldn't even complete half a circle without the energy either leaving her legs or bursting out in a burst that threw her aside.
"Not working," she said, sinking to the floor. Her voice was calm, but inside, irritation was building.
"It is working," the old man replied. "You are learning to fall. That is also part of the path."
Ulvia looked at him. In his eyes, there was no mockery — only even, calm patience. She sighed, rose, and stepped onto the track again.
---
Datuk was not having an easier time. Worse, even.
He was accustomed to brute force. His Berserker Spirit accelerated his blood, forced his muscles to work at their limit, and he knew how to do nothing halfway. Here, subtlety was required. Feeling the energy, not breaking it.
"You are too tense," the old man said, watching Datuk attempt to complete the circle. His legs trembled, and with every step, he left the line.
"I can't do it any other way," the dwarf grumbled, wiping his face with his sleeve. "It's like asking a fish not to swim."
"Then imagine you are not a fish," the old man approached. "Imagine you are a stone. A stone doesn't tense. A stone just lies there."
"Stones don't run in circles," Datuk muttered, but he tried.
He closed his eyes, exhaled. Imagined himself as a boulder — heavy, motionless, but not tense. He took a step. The energy, which had been seething inside, resisted, demanded release. He did not let it. He simply stood.
"Another step," the old man said.
Datuk took a second step. His foot landed on the line, the light beneath it flared evenly. Third step — again evenly. Fourth — the energy surged, and he left the track, nearly falling.
"Four steps," the old man said. "That's more than yesterday."
"Four steps," Datuk repeated, looking at his trembling legs. "In two days — four steps. At this rate, I'll learn to walk in a year."
"Perhaps," the old man shrugged. "Or perhaps never."
Datuk rose and stepped onto the track again.
---
Sobra faced a different problem. He quickly understood how to concentrate energy — his animal nature helped him feel what humans struggled to perceive. But holding that energy, not letting it flow back, distributing it evenly through his legs — this proved nearly impossible.
The bear completed a circle, his paws landing precisely on the glowing lines, the light beneath them pulsing evenly. But in the middle of the second circle, the energy accumulated in his legs suddenly began to rise higher, toward his shoulders, his back, and Sobra, losing control, broke rhythm. He tried to stop, but inertia carried him forward, and he flew off the track, nearly crashing into the wall.
"You are trying to hold too much," the old man said, approaching him. "Energy should not accumulate. It should flow. You gather it, pass it through your legs, and release it back. Do not hold. Let it pass."
Sobra snorted — not agreeing, not disagreeing. He returned to the track and tried again. Five steps — even. Ten — began to falter. Fifteen — the energy surged upward again, and he collapsed on his side, breathing heavily.
He rose and tried again. And again. And again. By evening, he could complete one and a half circles without error — but beyond that limit, he could not progress.
---
Rosh found the method the hardest of all.
He was accustomed to relying on vectors. On external force that could be controlled, directed, altered. Here, he needed to trust his internal energy — the energy he had always considered secondary.
"You are trying to analyze," the old man said, watching him. "Every step, every movement, every centimeter. That is wrong."
"If I don't analyze, how can I understand what I'm doing wrong?" Rosh asked.
"You are doing wrong because you are thinking," the old man approached. "Stop thinking. Feel."
Rosh closed his eyes. He tried to shut down his mind — the mind accustomed to calculating vectors, analyzing angles, plotting trajectories. It was difficult. Painful. He felt like a blind man trying to walk without a cane.
"Not working," he said, opening his eyes. His voice was even, but bitterness tinged it.
"It is working," the old man replied. "You took three steps. Yesterday you took none. That is progress."
"Three steps in two days," Rosh shook his head. "That's not progress. That's standing still."
"It is the path," the old man said. "Slow. Painful. Humiliating. But it is the path."
Rosh nodded and closed his eyes again.
---
They rose at dawn — if one could speak of dawn in the tower — and dispersed to their tracks. Ulvia learned not to leave the line, but every time she thought she had caught the rhythm, the energy slipped from her control. Datuk stubbornly repeated step after step, but could not advance beyond five or six steps. Sobra stalled at one and a half circles — he could not go further. Rosh made ten, twenty, thirty attempts a day, and only occasionally, for a few seconds, did he manage to hold the energy in his legs.
They fell. They faltered. They started over. And they fell again.
The old man watched. Corrected. Advised. Sometimes he fell silent for long periods, and then in the silence, only their breathing was audible, only the shuffle of feet on smooth stone, only the dull thuds of bodies hitting the floor.
"You are in too much of a hurry," he said to Ulvia on the tenth day. "The method does not tolerate haste. It requires you to forget the result. Focus on the process. On each step. On each breath."
"I am focusing," she replied, wiping the sweat from her face. "But it doesn't help."
"Then don't focus. Just do. Without hope. Without fear. Without expectation."
Ulvia tried. Took a step. Second. Third. On the fourth, she left the line.
She sat on the floor, hugged her knees, and closed her eyes. Inside, despair gathered — dull, heavy, it pressed on her chest, not letting her breathe. She wanted to scream. Wanted to punch the floor. Wanted to stand up and leave.
Instead, she opened her eyes, rose, and stepped onto the track again.
---
They continued. Fell. Rose. Started over. Sometimes someone managed to progress a little further — a step, two, half a circle. But the next day, the progress vanished, and they started from zero again.
The old man did not scold them. Did not praise them. Simply watched and corrected. His patience seemed boundless — he could stand for hours beside one of them, silently watching them try, fall, rise, and only occasionally utter short, concise remarks.
"Your left leg lags by half a step," he told Ulvia. "Adjust."
"You are clenching your toes," he told Datuk. "Relax."
"You are breathing too deeply," he told Rosh. "Shallowly. More often. Don't hold."
"You are afraid of falling," he told Sobra. "Stop being afraid. Falling is not a mistake. It is part of movement."
But nothing helped. They tried again and again, but the method did not yield. The energy slipped from their control, their legs disobeyed, their breathing faltered. They stood on the threshold of a new level but could not cross it.
And all they could do was repeat the same thing over and over. Without hope of quick success. Without guarantee that success would ever come. Simply do. Fall. Rise. And do again.
---
One evening, when everyone had gone to their cells, Ulvia remained on the platform. She stood on her track, eyes closed, trying to gather energy in her legs. Without bursts. Without tension. Simply flowing.
She took a step. Second. Third. On the fourth, the energy left, and she stopped.
"Not working," she said aloud, addressing no one.
"It is working," came the old man's voice from the darkness. "You haven't given up."
Ulvia opened her eyes. The old man stood at the edge of the platform, his black cloak almost blending with the shadows.
He left, and Ulvia remained alone on the platform. The glowing lines beneath her feet pulsed evenly, calmly. She looked at her hands, at the vine curled under her sleeve, and took a deep breath.
*I will not give up,* she told herself. *Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in six months.*
She returned to her cell, lay on the hide, and closed her eyes. Tomorrow would be a new day. New attempts. New falls. And perhaps, a new step forward.