The early morning frost clung to the limestone ridge, turning the stunted pines into jagged statues of white and grey. Outside the cabin, the air bit with a razor edge that made breath plume in thick, ghostly clouds as Ronan pulled the newly crafted practice bow back to his cheek.
A few paces away, sitting on a weathered log just off the frost-crusted porch, Mordren was busy. The dark elf ignored the biting cold entirely, a fine oil stone sliding back and forth across the wicked, obsidian edge of his daggers with a steady, hissing rhythm. Every few strokes, he tested the sharpness with a dark, predatory thumb, paying apparent indifference to the human boy, though his sharp eyes caught every twitch of Ronan's straining muscles.
"Your elbow drops," old Fergus said, stepping close and striking the back of Ronan's arm with the flat of a wooden stave. "If you drop your arm under tension, the string will bite your forearm and your arrow will go wide of a deer's heart. Keep it locked."
Ronan gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip on the yew wood. His shoulders burned, trembling under the constant, agonizing pull in the thin mountain air. He let the arrow fly, watching it thud dully against a distant pine stump. It was closer than yesterday, but still clumsy.
Old Fergus stepped back, wiping his weathered hands on his trousers. He studied the boy for a long moment, his pale eyes narrowing in quiet evaluation against the pale dawn light.
"Have you ever tried awakening your Core?" old Fergus asked, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the wind.
Ronan lowered the bow, wiping sweat from his forehead despite the freezing air. "Core?"
Old Fergus let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head as he looked out toward the vast, dark expanse of the frontier forest.
"I figured as much," old Fergus muttered. "For common serfs in the valleys, mana remains a word whispered by traveling tax collectors. Most commoners live and die without ever knowing what a Core is. The noble houses and the knightly orders keep the teachings close, awakening their bloodlines for war and power. But I have watched you for a week, boy. I have looked for the hum of mana in your blood, and I feel nothing."
Ronan gripped the bow tighter, a familiar, bitter knot forming in his stomach. "What is your Core, old Fergus?"
Old Fergus turned sharply, his face hardening into a glare so cold it made Ronan step back.
"Never ask a man his Core path," old Fergus snapped, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper. "It is a grave taboo across the frontier. Always remember that, boy. Keep your Core, or your lack of one, a strict secret. If a bandit, a rival, or a soldier knows the nature of your strength, they know how to shatter it."
Ronan swallowed hard, nodding once.
Old Fergus softened slightly, looking back toward the porch where Mordren sat. The old Ranger lowered his voice further. "That does not mean you are entirely empty. Some are late to kindle. If you want to survive out here, you must learn the foundational steps of movement and flow."
Old Fergus stepped closer, his gaze steady.
"I will teach you how to begin the awakening of the Wind-Stride Technique," old Fergus murmured. "It belongs to the Faelun discipline. To awaken it, you must learn to circulate mana through your legs, hips, and lower abdomen in a continuous flow. It does not create actual wind; instead, it reduces resistance within your movement, allowing you to accelerate more efficiently when you need a sudden burst of speed."
A few feet away, the steady rasp of Mordren’s sharpening stone abruptly stopped. The dark elf went completely still, his pale white hair falling forward over his bruised-slate face as he listened to the human ranger offering the secret Faelun discipline. Mordren held his breath for a long, heavy beat, his dark eyes flickering toward Ronan with a sharp, warning intensity, before he slowly went back to work, scraping steel against stone with renewed, rhythmic strokes.
In the biting chill of the morning, Ronan closed his eyes, closed out the memory of the ash and the blood, and focused his breathing, attempting to guide a continuous flow down through his hips and legs.