*Unwelcome Discovery*
David adjusted his backpack straps for the third time as he and Maya walked down Finnian's street, the afternoon sun casting long shadows between the houses. His usually perfect black hair was disheveled from running his hands through it—a nervous habit that had gotten worse over the past two days.
"This isn't like him," he muttered, "Finn never misses school. Never. Remember when he came in with that fever last year? Mrs. Patterson had to physically send him to the nurse."
Maya nodded, her curly brown hair bouncing with each step. Her athletic frame was tense with worry, and she kept glancing at her phone as if it might suddenly produce a message from their missing friend. "I tried calling him like twenty times yesterday. Straight to voicemail every time."
"Maybe his phone died?" David suggested weakly, though his tone suggested he didn't believe it himself.
"For two days? Come on, David. Even Finn's not that scatter-brained." Maya's voice carried a hint of her usual snark, but it was muted by genuine concern. "And did you see how weird he was acting recently? All jumpy and distracted, like he was waiting for something bad to happen."
They turned the corner onto Finnian's street, and David immediately felt something was wrong. The normally well-maintained neighborhood looked… off. Several houses had broken windows, and there were scorch marks on the pavement that definitely hadn't been there before.
"What the hell happened here?" Maya breathed, her athlete's instincts making her automatically scan for threats.
David's analytical mind kicked into overdrive trying to figure out what could have happened, "beats me."
They approached Finnian's house, and Maya grabbed David's arm so hard he winced. The front door hung askew on its hinges, and through the opening, they could see furniture overturned and walls scarred with what looked like claw marks. And upstairs they could see a large hole in Finnian's wall.
"Oh god," Maya whispered. "David, what if—"
"Mrs. Ravenswood?" David called out, his voice cracking slightly. "Finnian? Anyone there?"
Silence answered them, heavy and oppressive.
Maya pulled out her phone. "We need to call the police. Something really bad happened here."
But before she could dial, shadows began moving wrong. David noticed it first—the way the darkness under the nearby trees seemed to flow like liquid, pooling and gathering with unnatural purpose.
"Maya," he said quietly, his brain struggling to process what he was seeing. "Maya, we need to leave. Now."
The shadows erupted upward, taking shape into forms that belonged in nightmares rather than a suburban afternoon. Creatures of living darkness with burning red eyes stepped from the pooled shadows like they were doorways. Their forms shifted and writhed, never quite settling on a single shape.
"What the—" Maya started, but her words turned into a scream as one of the creatures lunged toward them.
David grabbed her hand, his body moving before his mind caught up. They ran, sneakers slapping against pavement as inhuman shrieks filled the air behind them. But the creatures moved too fast.
Tendrils of shadow wrapped around Maya's ankles, sending her sprawling. David skidded to a stop, turning back despite every instinct screaming at him to keep running.
"Let her go!" he shouted, though his voice came out higher than he intended.
The largest creature tilted its head at him, and when it spoke, its voice was like grinding glass. "You know the boy. Where is he?"
"What boy?" David lied, his hands shaking. "We don't know what you're talking about!"
Dark laughter filled the air. "Loyalty. How… touching. You will tell us what we wish to know, or you will serve as bait to draw him out."
*************
Dawn in the Northern Wastes came like a pale whisper, the aurora's remnants fading into a sky the color of old bones. Finnian stood in the center of their makeshift training ground—a circle Gareth had cleared of snow and ice with methodical precision. His breath came out in visible puffs, and his muscles already ached from the morning's warm-up exercises.
"Again," Gareth commanded, his voice carrying no sympathy for the exhaustion written across Finnian's face. "And this time, keep your guard up. A dead man can't swing a sword."
Finnian raised the blade, its steel reflecting the dim morning light. His stance was improving—feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced, sword held at the ready. But improvement was relative when you'd started from complete ignorance.
Gareth's practice sword came in low and fast, a wooden blur aimed at Finnian's ribs. This time, Finnian managed to deflect it, though the impact sent vibrations up his arms that made his teeth ache.
"Better," Gareth grunted. "But you're still thinking too much. Combat isn't a chess match, lad. It's instinct and muscle memory. Your brain's too slow to keep up with a real fight."
"Easy for you to say," Finnian panted, wiping sweat from his forehead despite the freezing temperature. "You've been doing this for decades."
"Thirty-seven years," Gareth confirmed, then immediately launched into another attack sequence. High, low, thrust, sweep—each movement flowing into the next with practiced precision. "Started when I was twelve. Apprenticed to a sellsword who believed the best teacher was pain."
Finnian barely managed to parry the first three strikes before the sweep caught him behind the knees, sending him sprawling into the snow. Again.
"Oof." He lay there for a moment, staring up at the pale sky.
Across the training ground, Kira was setting up targets—chunks of ice balanced on improvised stands. Her movements were economical, precise, wasting no motion. Everything about her screamed efficiency.
"Once you stop embarrassing yourself with that sword," she called over, "we'll work on movement. Can't hit what you can't catch, and you move like a cow in molasses."
"Thanks for the encouragement," Finnian muttered, but he was already raising his sword again.
Zara bounced over from where she'd been practicing her own spells, purple hair defying the wind as usual. "You're doing great!" she chirped with manic enthusiasm. "I mean, you're terrible, but you're terrible with *style* now!"
"That's… actually weirdly encouraging," Finnian admitted.
From her position near the fire, Lyralei looked up from her ancient texts. "The Imperial manuals speak of something called 'the warrior's awakening,'" she said, her cultured voice carrying easily across the training ground. "A moment when the body and mind synchronize with the weapon. Perhaps—"
"Perhaps he needs to focus on not falling on his face before we worry about mystical awakenings," Seraphina interrupted coolly, though she was watching the training with keen interest. "Ancient wisdom is worthless if you can't execute the basics."
Gareth nodded approvingly at Seraphina's practical assessment. "The lass has the right idea. Fundamentals first. Everything else is just showing off."
He moved into position again, wooden sword ready. "Now, let's work on combination strikes. Attack and defense aren't separate things—they flow together like water. Watch."
Gareth demonstrated a sequence that looked like a deadly dance—thrust, parry, riposte, step, slash. Each movement created an opening for the next, offense becoming defense becoming offense again in an endless cycle.
"Your turn," he said simply.
Finnian tried to replicate the sequence and immediately tangled his own feet, nearly impaling himself on his own blade. Gareth caught his wrist before disaster struck.
"Slower," the warrior advised. "Speed comes from repetition. Right now, you're trying to run before you can walk."
They worked through the morning, basic forms repeated until Finnian's arms felt like lead. Thrust, parry, slash, step. Over and over until the movements began to feel less foreign, less clumsy.
"Muscle memory," Gareth explained during a brief water break. "Your body needs to know these movements so well you can do them in your sleep. In a real fight, you won't have time to think about technique."
"How long does that take?" Finnian asked, flexing his sore fingers.
"Years," Gareth said bluntly. "But we don't have years. So we'll have to compress the learning curve. More hours, more intensity, more pain." His weathered face softened slightly. "But I've seen raw recruits with less natural balance than you. That should count for something."
"Why can't I just become an expert without all of this pain?" Finnian asked, half-joking.
"Because power without understanding is chaos," Seraphina said, moving closer to observe his form. "The sword can enhance your abilities, but it can't give you wisdom. That has to be earned."
As the morning progressed, Finnian felt something beginning to change. A growing awareness of balance, of the relationship between his body and the blade.
By midday, he was managing to complete basic combinations without falling over. It wasn't graceful, and it certainly wasn't pretty, but it was progress.
"Enough for now," Gareth finally declared. "This afternoon, Kira will teach you how to move without announcing your intentions to everyone in the next kingdom."
Finnian sheathed the sword, noting how the motion was already becoming more natural. Around him, his companions were preparing for their own training and research. Despite the harsh conditions and brutal schedule, there was something almost comforting about the routine.
He was becoming something new. Something stronger.