The sun had climbed higher, peeking through the golden canopy of leaves, casting rays that danced on Karlous's confused face. The pendant around his neck continued to pulse faintly, as if acknowledging the shift in fate.
He stood still, his mind racing. His breaths, though calmer, came unevenly. He looked at Frey—no, stared at him—as if trying to peel back a layer of illusion.
"Who are you really?" Karlous finally asked again, more grounded this time. "And how did you get through the Phoenix House barrier?"
Frey grinned, taking a step forward. "Let's just say… not all gates are made of steel and runes. Some open for those the world has forgotten."
His response only deepened the mystery.
"And that sword?" Karlous motioned to the massive, sheathed weapon on Frey's back. Its hilt bore ancient symbols, glowing faintly like embers trapped in stone.
Frey turned, letting the light fall upon it. "A relic. One of the last things my kingdom left me with. It listens more than it speaks… but when it speaks, things tend to break."
Karlous swallowed. The air around Frey felt... different. Heavy, yet freeing. Like the moment before a storm. Or the breath before a song of war.
"And the pendant?" Karlous asked again. "You said it's not just decoration."
Frey's eyes flicked to it, a rare hint of reverence softening his usually sharp demeanor.
"She chose you, Karlous. Nature doesn't just weep for anyone. The spirit of that tree—you gave her a reason to believe again. And she gave you a piece of herself in return."
Karlous felt the weight of those words. He looked down at the pendant. For a moment, it pulsed—not with power, but with warmth.
"But why me?" he whispered.
Frey didn't answer immediately. He walked toward the base of the tree and sat down with a relaxed motion that betrayed discipline beneath. He patted the spot beside him.
Karlous hesitated, then joined him.
Frey spoke slowly now, not like a warrior, but like a storyteller.
"Every kingdom that fell, every city that crumbled—do you know what they all had in common? They believed strength came only from bloodlines, or blessings, or banners. But real strength…" He looked Karlous in the eye. "Real strength comes from suffering. From choosing to rise. Again and again."
Karlous didn't flinch. He'd heard platitudes before. But this wasn't that.
"So what? You're going to train me?" Karlous asked.
Frey smirked. "You'll call it hell. I'll call it a Tuesday."
Silence stretched between them. But it wasn't awkward. It was anticipation.
Finally, Frey stood and extended a hand.
"You're not weak, Karlous. You've just never had someone show you how to use your fire."
Karlous stared at the hand.
And then, without another word, he took it.
Beneath the gaze of the ancient tree, under a sky painted in gold, the pact was sealed—not just between mentor and student, but between fate and the future.
Frey was a man of few answers—and heavy burdens.
Whenever Karlous tried asking him about his past, Frey would simply brush it aside.
"I'm the last survivor of a fallen kingdom," he once said, sharpening his blade by the campfire. "And you're far too immature to handle the truth."
Karlous had pressed further, but Frey wouldn't budge.
"You're not ready," he said flatly. "Some truths burn more than they teach."
So Karlous stopped asking.
But the training? The training didn't stop.
Frey was merciless.
Each morning began with endless running—until Karlous's legs collapsed beneath him.
Then came the mana drills—controlled breathing, channeling, compression—over and over until his core ached and his vision blurred.
And finally, the combat sessions.
Every strike, every block, every form was drilled into him until his arms trembled and every inch of his body screamed in pain. Frey didn't hold back, nor did he offer praise. Only corrections. Constant, brutal corrections.
"Again."
"Fix your stance."
"Too slow. You die."
From sunrise to late evening, the cycle continued without mercy.
When the sun dipped behind the trees, Frey finally called for rest.
"Sit. Meditate. Feel the flow, not the fatigue."
And Karlous, bruised and battered, sat under the same tree where he'd been chosen. He meditated, teeth clenched through the pain, letting the whispers of nature cradle his broken limbs.
Eventually, he dragged himself back home.
The guards at the Phoenix estate stared.
His clothes were torn. His arms and legs covered in bruises. He walked with a limp, his body trembling with every step, as if gravity itself wanted to bring him down.
He barely acknowledged anyone.
The grand hall loomed ahead, but Karlous didn't make it far.
He spotted a velvet couch near the entryway.
With a groan of surrender, he collapsed onto it.
"Coffee," he mumbled to the startled maids nearby. "Strong. Please. And sweet gods, don't make me move."
They rushed into action.
Karlous shut his eyes.
Every fiber in his being ached.
But beneath the pain… there was something else.
A flicker.
A fire.
He was changing.
And it had only just begun.