The moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale glow over the quiet vilge. Kyle and Alex stood beside the bck horse, who Alex had named Shadow, its dark coat glistening faintly under the soft light. It had been a week since Kyle’s visit to his mother, but the weariness in his eyes had only deepened, as if the weight of the world had settled permanently on his shoulders.

  Albert and his party had departed days ago, leaving the horse in Kyle’s care. "She bonded with you quickly," Albert had said, his tone both reassuring and heavy with the loss of his fallen companion. The horse had once belonged to a member of their party, and now, like everything else in Kyle’s life, it carried echoes of grief and responsibility.

  Albert had urged him to visit Fenwick again in a week. He was pulling every string he could, using his connections to try and help. Tomorrow, Albert would finally have an answer, whether his efforts had yielded anything or not.

  Alex broke the silence, his voice steady yet hopeful. “My brother’s gone to the capital. He’ll speak to my parents, they’ll figure something out. They have connections. I promise, Kyle, we’ll do everything we can to help your mother.”

  Kyle offered a faint smile, his gratitude genuine but muted by the despair he couldn’t shake. “Thank you, Alex,” he said, his voice low.

  The bck horse snorted softly, nudging Kyle’s arm as if sensing his turmoil. He patted its neck absentmindedly, his thoughts a swirl of doubt, darkness, and misery.

  The night passed slowly, and with it, a restless sleep. By dawn, the sky was awash with streaks of amber and silver. The air was cool, the scent of damp earth rising with the fog that clung low to the ground.

  As the first rays of sunlight pierced through the misty morning, Kyle mounted the bck horse, its hooves crunching softly against the dew-den dirt road. The vilge of Cragmere was quiet, with only the occasional distant bark of a dog or the faint crow of a rooster breaking the stillness. He had packed lightly, just enough to st the journey to the prison, but the weight of his purpose felt like a boulder strapped to his back.

  As he reached the edge of the vilge, his eyes caught on Barns’ cottage. The small, weathered structure stood in eerie silence, its windows dark, its door shut tight. Kyle’s hands instinctively clenched the reins, his knuckles white. The mere sight of the pce ignited the familiar rage simmering in his chest.

  He hadn't seen Barns in the past few days, nor had he sought him out. A part of him knew that if he ever stood face-to-face with the man again, he wouldn’t hesitate, he’d kill him without a second thought. The thought lingered like a bitter taste in his mouth, making his chest tighten with unresolved anger.

  Kyle exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he urged the horse forward. "Not today," he muttered under his breath, though whether it was a promise or a postponement, he couldn’t say. He didn’t look back as he exited Cragmere, the morning sun warming his back as he rode away.

  Hours passed in silence, the road winding through fields and forest paths that grew narrower the farther he traveled. The sky had brightened, the morning mist fading to a faint memory. Eventually, Kyle slowed his pace.

  After some time, he stopped in a small clearing surrounded by towering trees, their leaves forming a thick canopy overhead. The morning sunlight filtered through in scattered beams, casting dappled patterns across the forest floor. It was a quiet spot, the kind that felt untouched by the chaos of the outside world.

  Sliding off his horse, Kyle tied its reins to a nearby branch and pulled out the small bundle of food he had packed. He sat cross-legged on the grass, nibbling on the bread and dried meat, though his appetite felt dulled. The taste was pin, but it filled his stomach, and that was enough.

  Once he finished, he leaned back against a sturdy tree, his eyes drifting upward to the canopy above. The sunlight danced through the gaps in the leaves, golden and warm. For the first time in days, he felt a flicker of peace settle over him. It wasn’t much, but it was something, a brief respite from the storm that had consumed his life.

  Then, without warning, a sharp, excruciating pain shot through his skull. It was as if a hundred needles pierced his brain all at once. Kyle gasped, clutching his head, his vision blurring as he slid down the tree trunk.

  ‘No… not now,’ he thought, gritting his teeth against the overwhelming agony. But deep down, he knew what was happening. He’d felt this before, the telltale precursor to a vision.

  The world around him spiraled into darkness as his body gave in. He colpsed onto the grass, unconscious, while the sunlight continued to filter through the trees above, indifferent to the struggle within him.

  ***

  Kyle found himself standing atop a structure taller than anything he had ever imagined, even higher than the towers of the Baron’s estate or the grandest castles he'd heard about in stories. The air was crisp, yet it carried a strange hum, an unnatural hum, that seemed to emanate from the glowing rivers of light far below.

  The ground beneath his feet was hard and smooth, like polished stone, but it had an unnatural texture he couldn't pce. Surrounding him were giant, twinkling nterns that hovered in the air on towering poles, their brilliance outshining even the stars above.

  In front of him stood a man. His appearance was strange, his hair tied back neatly, and his clothing unfamiliar, made of fabrics Kyle had never seen. The man wore some kind of white brace on his left arm, rigid and unnatural, though it didn’t seem to slow him down. His eyes held a weight of disappointment, as if he had seen too much of the world and found it wanting. Smoke curled from his mouth, but it wasn’t from a pipe like the vilge elders used, it came from a strange, thin object in his hand, glowing faintly at the tip.

  The man flicked the object away, and it arced through the air before vanishing into the void below. Then he looked directly at Kyle—or whoever Kyle was in this vision. His gaze was sharp, piercing, almost as if it could see through flesh and bone to the soul beneath.

  Without a word, the man took a single step forward. But before his foot even touched the ground, he was suddenly behind Kyle. The movement was impossible, there was no sound, no rush of wind, no sign that he had even crossed the distance. It was as though he had simply ceased to exist in one pce and reappeared in another.

  The man had appeared behind Kyle.

  Kyle turned sharply, but the man had already returned to where he had been before, as if mocking him with his control of space itself.

  Then the man moved again, walking to the edge of the impossibly tall structure. He stopped for a moment, gazing out into the night, before beginning to walk to the opposite edge of the terrace. With each step, he left behind a perfect, ghostly image of himself, each one frozen mid-step, standing still as if time itself had bent to his will. By the time he reached the other side, there were six of him, all identical, all unnervingly real, scattered across the rooftop like silent sentinels.

  Kyle, or the person he was now, felt a shiver run through him. This man, with his strange powers and calm demeanor, radiated an aura of dominance.

  The man turned his head and looked directly at Kyle, his expression calm yet commanding, like a mentor about to share something sacred.

  "This," the man said, his voice low and resonant, "is what footwork means."

  Kyle felt the words, rather than simply hearing them, as though they were sinking directly into his mind. The man spoke in a tongue Kyle didn’t recognize, fluid, foreign, and alien, but he somehow understood every word, as if the knowledge had been buried inside him all along, waiting to be unearthed.

  "This is a crucial part of one's martial fighting identity," the man continued, stepping forward and leaving another faint afterimage behind. "Footwork is not just movement; it is survival. It is the rhythm of combat, the expression of your will. This," he gestured to the images of himself scattered across the rooftop, "is the footwork I have developed to harmonize with the threshold energy within me. And because that energy flows within you as well, this will work for you."

  Kyle wanted to speak, to ask what threshold energy was or why this man was teaching him, but his body was no longer under his control. His feet moved of their own accord, as though the person he was now, the person he embodied in this vision, had taken over completely.

  His legs adjusted their stance, shifting subtly as he felt a warmth blossom in his abdomen. That warmth flowed like a gentle current, spreading down into his legs and pooling in his feet. It wasn’t an overwhelming surge, but something steady and controlled, as if the energy were testing him, gauging his potential.

  The man watched silently, his sharp eyes following every movement as Kyle’s body attempted to mimic the impossible footwork. Each time his legs moved, the energy within him pulsed, guiding his steps, but the coordination required was staggering. His body faltered, stumbled, and fell repeatedly, yet the person he was now persisted. Determination burned brighter with every failure, and though Kyle himself couldn’t influence the movements, he felt the strain, the frustration, and the triumph of every small success.

  The sky above the strange city shifted, darkened, and lightened again in a blur. The sun and moon seemed to race across the heavens in a maddening dance, marking the passage of time. Two cycles of day and night passed, yet Kyle, through the body he inhabited, continued relentlessly. He could feel the muscles in his legs strain, ache, and eventually adapt. He felt sweat bead and fall, even if his real body y elsewhere, unconscious.

  Finally, the movements became smoother. The clumsiness faded, repced by precision and fluidity. The warmth in his abdomen grew stronger, responding to his efforts and flowing seamlessly into his feet. The person Kyle was now, this mysterious version of himself, stood straighter, more confident, his footwork beginning to mirror the man’s with uncanny accuracy. Though it was still rough around the edges, the basics were finally in pce.

  The man nodded approvingly, his expression softening just a fraction. "Good," he said, his voice carrying an air of finality. "This is only the beginning. Footwork is not something you master in days; it is a journey. But now you know how to begin."

  ***

  The Baron stood at the edge of the bed, fastening his shirt with an air of indifference. His gaze flicked toward her for a moment, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, before he turned away.

  “Rowan,” the Baron called, his voice sharp and commanding. The door creaked open, and Rowan stepped inside, his expression calm, almost bored.

  “She was good,” the Baron said, his tone almost conversational as he adjusted his cuffs. “You should’ve let me use her before you.” He gnced at Rowan, his smirk widening.

  Rowan chuckled lightly, shrugging as if the comment were nothing more than a passing jest.

  Just then, footsteps echoed in the corridor, and a woman appeared at the doorway. Her presence was commanding, her sharp eyes sweeping over the room before nding on the Baron. “You took your time,” she said, her voice cool and measured, “Had fun?”

  “Greetings, Baroness,” Rowan said, dipping his head slightly in a mockery of respect.The Baroness nodded curtly, her gaze lingering on the woman on the bed for a moment before she turned her attention back to the Baron.

  “Her healing potency is truly better than yours,” the Baron remarked, his tone teasing as he gnced at the Baroness. She stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line, but she remained silent. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension.

  Rowan cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Can I take her back?” he asked, his tone indifferent, as though he were discussing the retrieval of a piece of furniture. “I just received a message from the state. The officer from the border will arrive in three days’ time.”

  The Baron waved a hand dismissively. “You can take her tomorrow morning.” He turned to leave but paused, gncing back at Rowan. “By the way, give me the handcuffs you have.”

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