Chapter Eight – Ashes of the Unspoken

It was just before sunrise when Raze stirred awake, sweat clinging to his skin. The dreams had returned. Not the violent ones, not the screaming or the blood, but the silence—the kind that came after. The weight of absence. The image of Letan's final glance, hollow yet burning, lingered even in waking.

He sat up, stretching his arms slowly, letting the stiffness drain away with the cool morning air. He had made a habit of waking before anyone else in the village. Not for glory, not to be seen, but because the world felt quieter then. Realer. Less judgmental.

Outside, mist threaded between the wooden houses, curling over the dirt paths like smoke from an unseen fire. His footsteps barely left imprints as he walked to the familiar training patch—an old clearing lined with half-dead trees, their bark worn smooth where his fists had landed thousands of times.

The stones still sat there, undisturbed. A pyramid of uneven weight, built not to impress, but to break him and rebuild him every morning.

Juro hadn't spoken to him in two days—not out of anger, but caution. Ever since the last session, where Raze's knuckles bled through the wrappings and he refused to stop, the older man had grown silent again. Watching. Waiting.

Raze liked it that way.

He settled into his stance—legs firm, arms loose, breathing deep. The first strike didn't come quickly. He stood there for long minutes, simply feeling. His body had become attuned to the earth, to the quiet. Every sway of a branch, every shift in air pressure, spoke to him.

Then, without warning, he moved.

A single punch.

Then another.

He didn't flurry. He didn't rush. Each strike landed with intention—measured, placed, like a craftsman shaping iron. His body wasn't perfect. It was flawed, scarred internally, strained. But it was also becoming more his own with every blow.

Behind him, Juro eventually emerged, arms folded. He watched for several minutes before stepping closer.

"You're still carrying it," he said quietly.

Raze didn't stop. "Carrying what?"

"The moment you froze. The day you lived and Letan didn't."

His fists faltered only a fraction. "I didn't freeze."

"You hesitated."

That word stung, and they both knew it.

"I was weaker than I thought I was," Raze admitted, voice low. "I thought I was ready. I wasn't."

Juro walked around him, standing beside the battered stump Raze used for elbow training. "And what are you now?"

"Still not ready," Raze said. "But I know that now."

Juro let out a breath. "Good. Then we can actually start."

Raze stopped, turning toward him, eyes narrowed slightly.

Juro didn't smile. "You'll be turning fifteen soon. The Academy's not far off."

"I know."

"There's still time to harden your body, sharpen your instincts. But if your mind doesn't come with it…" He trailed off, eyes hard. "You'll fall again. And next time, there won't be anyone to trade places with you."

Silence fell between them.

Juro reached into his coat and tossed a small leather band onto the ground. A simple item. Worn, slightly burned at one edge. Letan's.

Raze picked it up slowly, holding it like it would crumble.

"You can't bury the past with your fists," Juro said. "But you can choose what kind of weight it becomes."

Raze nodded, slipping the band around his wrist without a word. It was a silent pact, one that didn't need explaining. He didn't wear it for mourning. He wore it so he wouldn't forget the cost of ignorance.

Later that day, Raze found himself by the edge of the southern fields, helping one of the elders carry bundles of dried herbs toward the storehouse. It wasn't his job, not really—but he liked the weight. It gave his muscles something to do between drills.

A few of the younger kids ran past, chasing one another with sticks, laughing in wild bursts. For a moment, Raze almost smiled.

Almost.

Then one of the kids tripped and scraped his arm on the gravel. A small injury. Barely a scratch. But the boy screamed like he'd been stabbed.

Raze froze in place. His vision blurred for a split second, and in his mind's eye, he saw Letan again—only this time, screaming with real pain, blood pooling under him as he reached.

It took him a full breath to snap out of it.

He dropped the herbs and walked away, ignoring the elder's confused look.

By the time he reached his home, the sun had climbed halfway up the sky. The village buzzed with its usual rhythm—animals being herded, children scolded, food cooked in long stone ovens. But Raze didn't stop for any of it.

Inside, he sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of his room, eyes closed, breath steady. He forced the image out of his mind.

"Letan is dead," he whispered. "I'm alive."

Not in guilt.

Not in grief.

But in choice.

He repeated it, over and over, until the voice in his head grew quiet.

That night, the stars shimmered like a thousand quiet flames. Raze stood by the riverbank just beyond the village, the waters still and dark.

Juro appeared beside him again.

"They're going to test you soon," he said.

"I know."

"It won't be fair."

"I don't need fair."

Juro gave a short laugh. "That's what I used to say too."

They stood in silence, watching the river flow.

"Do you want to be strong, Raze?" Juro finally asked.

"No," Raze said.

Juro turned to him.

"I want to be unbreakable," Raze finished.

Juro didn't argue.

He only nodded.