Chapter 12 – Stone and Wind

Eidalein – The Next Day

By the time Elian caught his breath, the sky above Eidalein had shifted into a deep amber hue — the kind of color that didn't exist in the world he once knew. Here, the sun neither moved nor stayed still; time felt like memory stretched across light.

And he was exhausted.

"Stand up," Marcus said, voice like gravel grinding underfoot.

Elian stood.

He couldn't feel his thighs. His arms ached. His lungs burned.

But Marcus stood across from him now — without armor, without weapons — only fists clenched like they'd been carved from granite.

"You're going to spar," Enoch said as he approached. "Both of us. No relics. No magic."

Elian blinked. "You're serious."

"Very," Marcus rumbled, stepping forward. "You need to learn what your body can do — before the Seraphblade lets you call it."

"And before you get killed hesitating in the dark," Enoch added, rolling his shoulders.

They circled him slowly — not predators, not teachers, but something more… unyielding.

"Marcus is endurance incarnate," Enoch warned. "You won't bring him down."

"And Enoch's faster than he looks," Marcus smirked. "Don't blink."

Elian's heart pounded. The sigil on the back of his hand throbbed with it.

Then Marcus lunged.

—

The first blow came like a hammer.

Elian ducked instinctively, feeling the wind crack past his temple as Marcus's fist smashed into the stone wall behind him — leaving a deep crater.

He scrambled back, only to have Enoch sweep his legs out from under him with a low, elegant spin-kick. Elian hit the ground hard.

"Don't watch us," Enoch said calmly. "Feel us."

"Get up," Marcus growled. "Second hit is never as kind."

Elian rolled, barely dodging a stomp that left another dent in the courtyard floor.

He scrambled to his feet, eyes wide.

Enoch vanished — and reappeared behind him mid-kick. Elian barely pivoted in time to deflect it with his forearm, only to be caught in a flurry of blows from Marcus that drove him back, back—

—until he slammed into a marble column.

"Still alive," Marcus said, smirking. "That's something."

—

It went on for half an hour.

Elian blocked. Fell. Rose again.

He learned to duck under Marcus's hammering punches — not to stop them, but to avoid them entirely. He began to anticipate the rhythm of Enoch's side kicks, predicting the twist of his hips, countering with footwork instead of force.

He bled.

He bruised.

But with every strike he absorbed, every breath he drew without surrender, something inside him changed.

Not strength.

Not yet.

But presence.

—

On the final round, Elian didn't fall.

Enoch came in with a flying kick — and Elian twisted aside, redirecting the force with a shoulder block. Marcus followed with a heavy punch — and Elian bent low, rolling past him, rising behind with a fast jab to Marcus's side.

It didn't hurt the man. But Marcus turned.

He smiled.

"Now that," he said, rubbing his ribs, "was instinct."

Elian panted, knees trembling. Sweat drenched his shirt. He could barely stand — but he stood.

Enoch approached and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You're not a soldier, Elian. You're a spark," he said. "Keep moving. Keep burning. You'll become fire."

—

As the sunless sky of Eidalein shifted once more, Elian sank down at the edge of the training yard. He looked at the sigil still glowing on his hand — not with dread, but something quieter.

Resolve.

"One day," he whispered, "I'll be ready."

Behind him, the wind whispered like a breath of approval through the golden towers.