Chapter 22:

The next morning, Harvey awoke to the low murmur of activity in the training chamber. The torches cast long shadows on the stone walls, their flickering light a reminder of the constant struggle between light and dark—both outside and within him. Still bound by the heavy, rune-inscribed cuffs, Harvey felt their chill, a constant reminder of the power he was forced to hide.

Duncan was already there, pacing before a row of practice dummies. He wore a stern expression, his eyes scanning the room as if measuring every movement. When he saw Harvey stirring, he nodded once—a silent command to begin the day.

"Rise," Duncan ordered, his voice firm yet not unkind.

Harvey forced himself to stand. His muscles ached from the previous day's ordeal, yet the fire of determination burned within him. Today, he would learn discipline—physical mastery that would serve as the foundation for everything else.

They moved outside to a cleared training field behind the stone building. The ground was rough, marked by years of countless drills, and the cool morning air carried a quiet urgency.

Duncan began by demonstrating a series of basic exercises—stances and movements honed over decades of combat. He stressed that the body was the vessel through which any power must be controlled, and that a steady heart was the key to restraining the wild energy inside.

"Every movement must be deliberate," Duncan intoned as he shifted through a series of martial postures. "Control your body, and you control your power. Without discipline, even the mightiest force can turn on its master."

Harvey watched intently, his mind echoing with the lessons from yesterday—his inner turmoil, the gnawing sensation that had eroded him from within. Today, he would not let that hunger define him. He stepped forward, trying to mimic Duncan's movements.

At first, his motions were clumsy and unrefined, his limbs heavy with the burden of suppressed potential. The energy that churned inside him threatened to break free with every awkward, uncontrolled step. Each misstep, every imbalance, was a reminder of the chaos he had yet to master.

"Focus, Harvey!" Duncan barked, circling him like a hawk. "Control is not just about strength—it's about precision. You must feel every movement in your body as though it were a single, deliberate act."

Harvey gritted his teeth, his eyes fixed on his feet as he carefully repeated the stance. Slowly, he began to sense a rhythm—a cadence that allowed his body to move in a fluid, controlled manner. The heavy cuffs around his wrists still reminded him of his limitations, but in that moment, he saw them not as a prison, but as a measure of the discipline he must cultivate.

As the training session wore on, Duncan introduced weapon drills. Today, it was the practice sword—a simple, well-worn blade that had seen countless battles. Duncan demonstrated how a steady grip, a calm heart, could make the difference between a controlled strike and a reckless blow.

"Let your weapon be an extension of your body," Duncan instructed. "A steady hand, even under pressure, can make all the difference. This is how warriors of old contended with forces greater than themselves."

Harvey took the sword in his hand. The weight was comforting in its familiarity, a physical representation of the control he sought. He practiced basic swings and blocks, each movement slow and measured. With every strike, he focused on channeling his inner turmoil into precision rather than chaos.

Between drills, Harvey's mind wandered back to the haunting questions from the night before. He recalled the guardian of the tree—a voice so firm, so sure of the danger within him. He recalled the fleeting presence within the shadows—a being that seemed to look right through him, dismissing him as insignificant. Those memories now mingled with the physical strain of training, each swing of the sword a silent promise to never let uncontrolled power take hold again.

"Your progress is slow," Duncan observed as Harvey paused for a brief rest, wiping sweat from his brow. "But it is steady. Remember, mastery over your body is the first step. The energy inside you, no matter how it may gnaw at your strength, must be kept in check."

Harvey's gaze hardened. "I will control it. I will live by my heart—steady and sure—so I never let this power harm someone I care about again."

Duncan's eyes twinkled with a hint of approval. "That is the spirit I want to see. Discipline, focus, and a steady heart are your only allies right now. For one year, you will train, and then you will be sold to a sect that values the kind of discipline you are beginning to show."

A heavy silence fell between them. Harvey's stomach churned at the thought of being sold, yet he knew that in Abadon, such was the way of things. It was a bitter reality, but one that promised a path forward—a chance to learn, to survive, and maybe one day, to regain what he had lost.

As the training session ended, Harvey sat down on the cool grass, the practice sword lying beside him. His mind swirled with reflections and questions:

Who was the guardian of the tree that once spoke of self-control, and why did that voice resonate so deeply with me?

What was that presence I sensed, the one that dismissed me as insignificant?

And how can I continue on this path when every step reminds me of Julia—of what my uncontrolled power may have cost me?

For a long moment, Harvey sat in silence, letting the questions mingle with the fatigue in his bones. But as he took a deep breath, a determined resolve began to take root.

Survival, discipline, and self-mastery were his only paths forward. He would focus on honing his body, on learning the art of controlled motion, so that one day, he might unlock the true potential hidden within him without the risk of unleashing its destructive hunger.

And with that resolve, Harvey vowed silently to channel his grief into strength, to live by his heart, and to never allow his inner demons to overtake him