Chapter Nine - The Stillness Before Fire

The morning air was heavier than usual. Not with rain, but with an unspoken pressure, as if the sky itself was waiting for something to shift. The trees barely moved, and even the wind seemed hesitant to pass through the village.

Raze stood on the border of the forest that encircled the southern end of the land, eyes tracing the worn trail that disappeared into the dense foliage. He didn't need to be told where it led. He knew. Everyone knew.

The southern woods.

The place where Letan had died.

Two years ago, he'd walked in with fire in his chest and a smile on his face, unaware of the hollow silence that would follow. Now, he stood again at its edge—taller, stronger, older—but still shadowed by that memory.

Juro appeared beside him without announcement, arms folded, eyes scanning the path ahead.

"You know why I brought you here," he said.

Raze didn't answer. He simply stared.

"There's no mock training in this," Juro continued. "No safety ropes. No one to pull you back. It's not punishment. It's understanding."

Raze looked up at him, voice flat. "How long?"

"Three days. Alone."

He didn't flinch.

"You'll carry no food," Juro added. "And no weapons."

A soft exhale left Raze's nose. "Good."

"You'll find a way to survive, or you'll return knowing why you couldn't."

"I won't die."

Juro turned to face him. "Then don't hold back. Don't walk like a ghost through those woods. Hunt. Breathe. Feel everything."

Raze gave a short nod, jaw tight.

Juro reached into his coat and handed him a small flask of purified water and a coarse cloth. "You'll need to gather everything else yourself. And Raze—this isn't about fighting beasts. It's about facing what's left inside you."

That part… Raze understood.

With no more words exchanged, he stepped forward, barefoot, crossing the old stone marker that separated the village's safety from the unknown. The trees swallowed him quickly, and Juro's figure disappeared behind layers of dark green.

The forest wasn't loud. It never had been. But this time, Raze noticed how it breathed. The way the leaves curled under his feet, how the canopy above filtered sunlight into broken patterns on the floor. Shadows shifted like old memories, and each step drew something ancient back to the surface.

By midday, he had built a temporary shelter under a thick-rooted tree with broad leaves. It was basic—no more than a dry space to curl beneath if it rained. He spent little time settling; there was no comfort to be found here. Not yet.

Hunger set in sooner than expected. But he ignored it.

His body moved automatically—searching, climbing, tasting bark and berries he'd memorized from survival lessons. When he found nothing, he didn't panic. He sat. Breathed.

As the sun dipped lower, Raze finally heard it: rustling in the bushes, not from wind. Something moved on four limbs—heavier than a fox, lighter than a boar.

He crouched low.

Moments later, a wild hare dashed into view. His body responded before his mind fully caught up. A step, a twist, and a lunge. The hare bolted left, but Raze's hand caught its hindleg mid-turn. The struggle was brief—his grip unyielding.

He didn't enjoy the kill.

He did it because he had to.

By nightfall, the hare had been skinned, smoked over a makeshift flame, and eaten in silence. His fingers bled slightly from the thorns he had to pull to spark fire. He welcomed the sting.

Then the darkness arrived.

And with it, the silence.

That was when the forest began to speak.

Not with sound—but memory.

He lay back on the dirt, staring up through the half-bare canopy. His breathing slowed, and soon, without warning, the dream took him.

He was back in the clearing. Letan ahead of him. Laughing.

"Come on, Raze! You're so slow!" Letan called out, leaping between branches, his grin wild.

Raze tried to run forward. But the ground turned soft, muddy, dragging at his feet. He shouted Letan's name, but no sound came. Ahead, the sky darkened. Something large, unseen, moved in the trees.

Then came the scream.

He woke gasping.

Dew clung to his skin, his shirt soaked at the collar. But his heart was steady. Slower than it had been after past nightmares.

He sat up and whispered to himself, "You're not there anymore."

Not quite comfort.

But something close.

The second day was colder. His body was stiff, not from the terrain but from the tension he hadn't released. So he trained. Slowly at first—movements drawn from memory. Juro's forms. His own tweaks. Fist to palm, palm to elbow, hip to knee. The shapes of battle, even in stillness.

He struck the trees gently at first—testing how much give they had, how much they gave back. The forest was different than the old clearing. No practice logs. No measured feedback.

But the forest taught other things.

Timing.

Balance.

Real silence.

At midday, he came across claw marks on a tree—fresh. Three-pronged. About the size of his forearm. Whatever left it hadn't gone far.

He didn't run.

He followed.

By dusk, he saw it—a slender beast, gray-furred, with muscles taut under its coat. Its eyes were dim yellow. Not a monster. But not tame either.

It sniffed the air, and Raze stepped onto a branch overhead. The beast looked up but didn't flinch. It recognized no threat.

Raze leapt.

His body twisted midair, bringing both legs down toward the creature's flank—but the beast rolled and countered with speed. Its claws lashed out, grazing his arm.

The skin tore.

He hit the ground in a roll and rose instantly, eyes locked. No weapon. No advantage.

But no fear.

He charged again, this time lower. The beast lunged. At the last second, Raze dropped onto his back, kicked upward with both feet, and sent the creature crashing into a tree trunk.

It whimpered. Got up. And fled.

He didn't chase it.

Instead, he looked down at the blood on his forearm. It wasn't deep. But it was enough.

His heart pounded. Not from pain, but from something deeper.

He had faced it.

A real fight.

Real blood.

And he hadn't flinched.

That night, as the fire crackled and the pain in his arm throbbed gently, he smiled. Just faintly. For the first time in years.

He was not unscarred. But he was not broken.

The third day passed in reflection. No battles. No hunts. Just movement. Quiet.

When he finally stepped out of the forest, Juro was waiting, arms crossed as always.

"You're limping."

Raze nodded. "It'll pass."

"See anything?"

"Enough."

They walked in silence back to the village.

Juro didn't ask what he'd fought. Or what he'd seen.

He knew Raze wouldn't tell him.

Not yet.

As the village roofs came into view, Raze's gaze lifted—not to the homes or the distant hills—but to the sky.

He felt it again.

That tiny, buried ember that had survived Letan's death. That refused to go out.

It didn't burn bright yet.

But it was real.