Flowind Sect — Healing Grove
The grove lay hidden beyond the eastern cliffs, where the mountain fell away into mist and moonlight. It was a quiet sanctuary, cradled by dense bluegrass, jade-leafed trees, and streams humming with low ambient qi.
Fenrir awoke to birdsong. And pain.
He groaned and sat up, clutching his ribs. His skin bore cuts, bruises, and spiritual burns along his arms.
A rustle beside him.
Lyra sat beneath the spiritberry tree, bandaging her thigh with practiced silence. Her sleeve was torn, skin pale but unmarred save for the healing gash across her leg.
Fenrir blinked. “You alive too, huh?”
She gave a half-glance and nodded.
“Figures,” he muttered, lying back. “You’re too quiet to die.”
A faint smirk tugged at her lips. Almost imperceptible. Then she returned to her bandaging.
---
Time in the Grove
They spent two days in the grove.
Joshua did not visit. He had instructed a spirit deer to bring food and infused the air with healing mist, but otherwise left them alone.
“Part of the training,” Fenrir guessed aloud. “Let us chew on our failure.”
Lyra handed him a bowl of spirit broth. He took it without thanks, though his voice softened.
“Thanks.”
She sat across from him, needle beside her, eyes half-closed. Every so often, she tapped her finger against the soil—slow, rhythmic. Meditation.
Fenrir stared at her for a moment.
“You really saved my ass back there,” he admitted.
She blinked.
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“I mean—I was sure I had the beast. But that thing… it wasn’t just strong. It knew how to fight.”
Lyra raised one hand and traced three shapes in the air.
Reckless. Alone. Blind.
He frowned. “You saying I fought like that?”
She nodded, unashamed.
He chuckled bitterly. “Harsh.”
Then he leaned back and sighed.
“But true.”
---
Mistakes Etched in Bone
“Back in the Hollow,” he said slowly, “I saw it moving toward you. And I—I just acted. My qi flared, instincts kicked in. Thought I could take it.”
He clenched a fist, the bandages over his knuckles crinkling.
“But I let it bait me. Twice. Nearly got you killed.”
Lyra stared, then drew her Sounding Needle across a flat stone.
It emitted a deep, soft tone. Resonant. Stable.
Then she tapped it again—off rhythm. The sound wavered, jarring.
She pointed at the jarring note, then at Fenrir’s heart.
He got the message.
“You mean... I broke harmony. I wasn’t listening to the fight.”
She nodded.
Then, unexpectedly, she pressed her hand to his sternum.
A wave of warmth passed into him—a soft ripple of qi.
He shivered. “What was that?”
She pulled her hand away and wrote on the dirt with her finger:
“You’ve got fire. But you burn alone.”
Fenrir stared. Then slowly, nodded.
“Alright, silence. You’ve got a point.”
---
Sharing the Path
Later that day, as moonlight poured through the branches, Lyra showed Fenrir something she’d never shared before.
In the silence of the grove, she placed a leaf flat against a stone, positioned her needle above it, and gently tapped out a sequence—a kind of rhythm only those with an Echo Root could interpret.
But Fenrir listened carefully.
After the third cycle, he spoke.
“It’s... calm. But also layered.”
She nodded.
“Can you teach it?”
She hesitated.
Then nodded again.
That night, they trained together.
Fenrir practiced slowing his qi surges, letting his fire build in waves instead of bursts.
Lyra allowed her vibrations to sync with another person’s spiritual rhythm—something she had always avoided.
They struggled at first. Their energies clashed. But hour after hour, they attuned.
Not perfectly. But enough.
---
Joshua Returns
On the third morning, Joshua finally appeared—sitting on the curved branch of a tree, legs folded.
“You didn’t die. That’s good.”
Fenrir stood, stiff but defiant. “Barely.”
Joshua nodded at Lyra. “And you?”
She raised her hand. Pressed thumb to heart.
Still beating.
Joshua smiled.
“The Broken Horn was your first trial. Many fail. You survived, though not without scars.”
He leapt down, robe fluttering softly.
“But you did more than survive,” he added. “You learned. And because of that, you are no longer students.”
He handed each a thin obsidian band with a silver Flowind symbol etched across its curve.
“From this day, you are recognized as Outer Disciples of Flowind Sect. You will train others beneath you in time. But first—strengthen your roots.”
They both bowed—Fenrir deeply, Lyra with grace.
---
Afterlight and Bond
That evening, after Joshua left, Fenrir and Lyra sat by the fire.
He passed her a strip of dried meat. She declined.
“Still just soup and wind, huh?” he said.
She shrugged.
“You ever… talk?” he asked curiously.
She met his eyes.
Then slowly, she reached into her robe and pulled out a small shard of stone. Inscribed on it was a rune—Silence.
She held it up.
“My vow,” she mouthed.
He blinked. “Vow? Like, a life vow?”
She nodded once.
“Why?”
She stared into the fire. Her eyes seemed lost in some memory—painful, deep.
After a long pause, she wrote in the dirt:
“The world screams enough. I became the echo instead.”
Fenrir went quiet.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I get that.”
They sat a while longer.
No words. Just fire, and the rhythm of wind in trees.
But something had changed between them.
Not affection. Not friendship yet.
Respect.
A bond forged not in words—but in wounds.
---
Closing Lines
In the Flowind Sect’s ancient library, Joshua sat reading through old scrolls, a soft frown on his lips.
He sensed the slow change in his disciples—their shift from fragments to pattern.
“Good,” he whispered. “The first thread
s have joined.”
Then his gaze lifted toward the horizon, where storm clouds coiled over the distant range.
“But I’ll need more than threads to stop what’s coming.”
His eyes glowed faintly.
“One more. At least one more.”
