The descent from the high scree slopes was wrapped in the grey shadow of evening. Mordren walked ahead, his grey cloak melting into the gloom, while Ronan followed a few paces behind. Thanks to the elk-hide moccasins, his steps made no more sound than falling dust.
When they crested the final rise and the cabin came into view against the dark timberline, Ronan noticed a plume of thin, grey smoke curling from the stone chimney. More importantly, a dark silhouette sat hunched on the rough-hewn wooden porch, nursing a steaming mug.
Fergus.
As they drew closer, the old ranger looked battered by the sinkholes and deep wilderness trails. His weather-beaten face was etched with deep lines of fatigue, and a jagged, ugly flesh wound tore through the sleeve of his leather tunic, crusted with dark, dried blood along his forearm. He sat leaning forward, blowing slowly over a ceramic mug of dark, bitter root tea.
Fergus lifted his head as they approached. His sharp, experienced eyes swept over Mordren first, then locked onto Ronan.
The ranger went still. Even from several paces away, Fergus felt the uncanny absence of friction in the boy's approach, the terrifying, predatory stillness that clung to Ronan like a shroud. The kid didn't walk like a clumsy human novice anymore; he moved with the unsettling grace of something born in the deep timber.
A flicker of grudging approval sparked in Fergus’s eyes, quickly followed by a heavy, familiar shadow of disappointment. He let out a slow breath, shaking his head.
"You've learned how to quiet your step," Fergus rasped, his voice rough as gravel. He took a slow sip of his bitter tea, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his injured arm. "You move like a stalker now. But... still nothing."
He tapped a thick, calloused finger against his own chest, indicating the invisible reservoir of vitality. "No spark. No core. You're walking like a ghost, boy, but your blood is still just human bone and meat. Without a Kindled Mana Core to back it up, a single heavy blow from a veteran blade will shatter you right down to the marrow."
Ronan gripped the hilt of Fang at his hip, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing. Mordren merely stood back in silence, his arms crossed, watching the exchange with cold, impassive eyes.
Fergus set his mug down on the porch floor with a dry clack, winced as he rolled his injured shoulder, and unhooked a battered practice sword from the porch railing. He tossed it through the air toward Ronan.
"Enough talk of shadows," Fergus growled, standing up and drawing his own side-sword with a sharp ring of steel. "Let us see if your blade can keep pace with your new feet. Show me your attack."
Ronan caught the hilt out of the air instinctively, dropping his center of gravity into a low, balanced stance as the steel cleared its scabbard.
Without warning, Fergus closed the distance, executing a blistering downward arc designed to test the boy's spine and structure. Ronan met it with the fundamentals he had drilled into muscle memory during weeks in the narrow stone cleft, driving a high-velocity linear thrust upward to seize the initiative.
Clang!
The blades met with a sharp, ringing spark. Fergus pressed forward, shifting his weight into a heavy, crushing horizontal strike meant to batter through Ronan's guard.
Instinctively, Ronan braced his arms rigidly, attempting to meet force with dead weight.
Fergus’s blade slammed into his with overwhelming momentum, violently jarring Ronan’s shoulders, nearly knocking the weapon from his grip and driving him stumbling backward onto the frost-crusted dirt.
"Idiot!" Fergus barked, lowering his point slightly as he caught his breath, his eyes burning with stern instruction. "If you try to block a seasoned fighter with raw muscle when you lack a core, your arms will snap like dry pine. You are meeting force with dead weight! That is the 3rd Form: Block. You save that only for when timing or space completely fails you. What did Mordren teach you about the flow of a fight?"
Ronan shook out his stinging wrists, drawing a deep, steadying breath of the cold mountain air. He dropped his hips, remembering the fluid mechanics of his stride.
"The 2nd Form," Ronan muttered, his eyes narrowing on the old ranger's steel. "Parry."
"Show me," Fergus challenged, stepping in once more.
This time, as Fergus lashed out with a vicious, probing thrust, Ronan didn't lock his joints. He pivoted smoothly on his elk-hide soles, using the Wind-Stride alignment to shift his center of gravity. Instead of smashing against the oncoming blade, his side-sword met Fergus's steel at an angle, executing a fluid, frictionless redirection along the curve of his flat edge.
The incoming momentum slid harmlessly past Ronan’s shoulder, dispersing into the empty air behind him without costing him an ounce of balance.
Fergus’s eyes widened slightly in genuine amazement as his strike spent itself into nothingness. Before the old ranger could recover his balance from the overextension, Ronan smoothly transitioned off the redirection, bringing his pommel up in a lightning-fast follow-up that stopped a hair's breadth from Fergus's ribs.
Fergus let out a sharp grunt of surprise, then a low, raspy chuckle rumbled in his chest. He lowered his sword point to the dirt.
"Well," Fergus muttered, a proud, crooked grin breaking through his exhaustion. "The boy can actually fight. Your footwork is trash compared to a dark elf's, but your blade work... your blade work has teeth."