Chris awoke with a start, gasping for air, the taste of ash on his tongue. His heart thundered in his chest as his eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the cracked shutters. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was—caught between the fading remnants of a dream and the weight of reality pressing down on him.
He sat up, the thin quilt slipping from his shoulders. His arm stung sharply, the bandage damp with sweat, but it was the feeling in his chest that gripped him. Something cold—like an ember burned out too soon—flickered inside him, stirring from the edges of his mind. He could still feel it: power. Dark and vast, like the shadow of wings unfurling behind him. But now it was slipping away, just out of reach.
Kira's voice cut through the haze. "You were dreaming."
Chris blinked, turning to find his raven perched on the windowsill, her feathers glimmering faintly in the early light. "No," he whispered, shaking his head. "It wasn't just a dream."
Kira hopped down onto the bedpost, her sharp black eyes studying him. "What did you see?"
Chris ran a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat. "Wings. Black wings. And something… calling to me. Like I was supposed to be—" He stopped himself, feeling foolish.
"Supposed to be what?" Kira pressed, her voice uncharacteristically serious.
Chris hesitated. "Whole."
The word hung in the air between them, weighty and strange. Before Kira could reply, a knock sounded at the door—soft, but deliberate.
Chris tensed, the dream still fresh in his mind, as if the shadow of those wings had followed him into the waking world. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, muscles groaning in protest.
The door creaked open just a crack, revealing Dorian's weathered face. "Still alive, then?" the man said with a wry grin. "Good. We've got work to do."
Chris exhaled slowly, the remnants of the dream still lingering. Whatever was stirring inside him, whatever power those wings represented, he needed to understand it. And if Dorian could help him unlock it—no matter the cost—then he was all in.
Chris followed Dorian out of the inn and into the crisp morning air, still groggy from the restless sleep. His muscles ached, but it wasn't just the physical exhaustion—something deeper gnawed at him, as though he'd left a part of himself behind in the dream.
The village was beginning to stir, but Dorian led them past the market and toward the outskirts. Soon, they reached a small clearing on the edge of the forest, where mist clung to the ground and the morning light barely reached through the canopy.
"Right." Dorian planted his staff into the earth with a thud, turning to Chris with a grin. "Let's see what you're made of. First rule—don't think, just move. You've got instincts you don't know how to use yet."
Chris frowned, gripping the wooden practice sword Dorian handed him. "What kind of instincts?"
"The kind that only show up when it's life or death," Dorian replied cryptically. "You fought those goblins. Something kept you alive, didn't it?"
Chris shifted uncomfortably. Does he know? No—he couldn't. Could he?
Kira, perched on Chris's shoulder, gave a low caw. "Lucky instincts, more like."
Dorian's grin widened. "Call it luck if you want. But whatever kept you alive isn't something everyone's born with." His tone was casual, but Chris could feel the weight behind the words—a subtle hint that the man knew more than he was saying.
Chris tightened his grip on the sword, nerves prickling at the back of his neck. "So what now?"
Dorian motioned to a stump near the edge of the clearing. "Hit that. Hard as you can."
Chris glanced at the stump, then back at Dorian. "That's it?"
"That's it."
Chris rolled his eyes but stepped into position. He raised the sword and swung with all his strength. The blade struck the stump with a dull thud, sending a jolt up his arms. Nothing special—just an ordinary swing.
Dorian didn't react, his expression as unreadable as ever. "Not bad," he said. "For a kid pretending to be normal."
Chris froze, heart skipping a beat. "What do you mean, pretending?"
Dorian only shrugged. "Everyone's got something to hide, kid. I'm not asking questions. But if you want to survive whatever's coming, you'll need more than brute force."
Chris exchanged a glance with Kira, who gave a small croak as if to say, Be careful.
"Try again," Dorian said, leaning on his staff. "This time, stop thinking. Move like your life depends on it."
Chris exhaled, the weight of Dorian's words lingering. What does he know? He shook the thought away and raised the sword again, trying to clear his mind. The memory of the dream flickered—wings unfurling, dark and powerful, just out of reach.
He swung.
This time, the sword moved differently—faster, heavier. The blade crashed into the stump with a loud crack, splinters flying in all directions. Chris staggered, breathless, as the power pulsed through him for a fleeting moment—just a taste, but real.
Dorian grinned. "Now we're getting somewhere."
Chris stared at the stump, heart pounding. Whatever that flicker of power had been, it came from somewhere deep inside—a place he didn't fully understand yet.
"What was that?" Chris whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
Dorian gave a satisfied nod. "That's the first step. You've got something in you, kid—something waiting to come out. Question is, are you ready to use it when it counts?"
Chris swallowed hard, still trying to catch his breath. Kira fluttered down from his shoulder, her dark eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"Well?" she asked quietly. "Feel closer to figuring it out?"
Chris gave a tired grin. "Not yet… but closer."
Dorian clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture lighter than before. "Good. Get some rest tonight. We've got a long road ahead—and this was the easy part."
With that, Dorian turned and headed back toward the village, leaving Chris standing in the misty clearing, the echoes of that strange power still thrumming in his veins.
Kira landed lightly on his shoulder again, her feathers brushing his ear. "You think he knows?"
Chris shook his head. "No. And let's keep it that way."
The forest clearing echoed with the steady rhythm of wood meeting wood. Chris's wooden sword arced through the air, clashing against Dorian's staff with a sharp crack. His arms burned, but his movements had grown quicker—more deliberate—over the past few days.
Dorian grinned as he deflected the next strike. "You're not flailing anymore. I'd call that progress."
Chris huffed, stepping back and wiping sweat from his brow. The morning fog was lifting, and the sun's warmth seeped through the forest canopy. "Yeah, but you're still kicking my ass."
"That's the job," Dorian said, planting his staff into the ground. "But you're not getting cut to ribbons by goblins now, are you?"
Chris gave a half-smile, the ache in his muscles a reminder of how far he'd come. He was moving better, faster, and Kira had been right there with him through it all—observing, advising, and sometimes scolding when his frustration boiled over.
It had been a few days since they started training, but it felt longer. The dream about the black wings still haunted him, surfacing at strange moments—like now, when his muscles ached and his mind buzzed with exhaustion. That ember of power inside him was still there, but every time he tried to reach it, it slipped just out of reach.
"You've got potential, kid," Dorian had told him more than once. "But potential won't save your skin in a fight. Control will."
Chris swung the sword in a smooth arc, testing the feel of it in his hand. The movements were starting to feel familiar now—not just practice, but instinct. He could sense the difference in himself, and so could Kira.
Perched on a branch above, Kira clicked her beak approvingly. "Not bad. You might even look impressive if you wore real armor."
Chris shot her a tired grin. "One thing at a time."
Dorian tapped his staff against the ground. "Good enough for today. You've earned a break."
Chris lowered the wooden sword, relief flooding through him. The morning was still young, but his body welcomed the chance to rest. He glanced down at his hands—rougher now from handling weapons—and felt a strange sense of satisfaction. He wasn't just surviving in this world; he was starting to find his place in it.
As they packed up the training area, Dorian glanced toward the distant treetops. "Word around the village is the goblins have been stirring again—raiding farms to the south. If you're looking for a real fight, it won't be long."
Chris felt a flicker of excitement beneath his exhaustion. "Think I'm ready?"
Dorian smirked. "You're ready enough. Just remember, goblins fight dirty. Don't let your guard down."
Chris nodded, gripping the wooden sword with renewed determination. The next time I face those goblins, I'll be ready.