The morning sun filters through the trees, painting the forest floor in shifting patterns of gold and green. The air is crisp, cool, and filled with the faint hum of distant birdsong. It should feel peaceful, but the tension in Pyre's voice as he calls me forward says otherwise.
He stands in the clearing, his arms crossed over his chest, his crimson eyes sharp and unyielding. My wolf sits nearby, its tail swishing lazily, oblivious to the heavy mood hanging in the air.
"You've learned to speak," Pyre says, his voice calm but firm. "That's progress. But words won't save your life."
I nod slowly, unsure where he's leading.
"What saved you before," he continues, stepping closer, "was instinct. But instinct alone won't make you a fighter. Not a proper one."
I tilt my head, confused. Isn't fighting exactly what I've been doing all along? Surviving, killing, clawing my way through everything in my path? But Pyre shakes his head, as though he can see the question forming in my mind.
"Not like an animal," he says, his tone cutting. "Like a warrior."
He steps back, taking a loose, balanced stance. His feet are slightly apart, his weight evenly distributed, his hands raised in a position that seems both calm and dangerous.
"This is your foundation," he says.
I mimic him, shifting my weight awkwardly as I try to match his stance. My legs feel wrong—too wide, too stiff—and my arms ache as I hold them up. Pyre steps forward, frowning.
"No," he says, nudging my leg with his foot. "Balance." He taps my shoulder, adjusting my posture. "Keep your weight centered. And relax your arms."
I try again, forcing my body to obey. It feels unnatural, like wearing clothes that don't fit. My wolf tilts its head, watching me struggle, and lets out a small bark, almost as if laughing.
"Good," Pyre says finally, stepping back. "Now hold it."
The stance itself is exhausting. My legs tremble, unused to the controlled tension. My arms feel heavy, the muscles straining to stay raised.
Pyre watches me with the patience of a predator stalking its prey. "Hold it," he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Minutes pass, and my body starts to shake. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my breathing grows labored. Just when I think I'm about to collapse, Pyre steps forward.
"Good," he says, his voice steady. "Now, punches."
He demonstrates, throwing a slow, deliberate jab. His movement is fluid, controlled, and precise. "See the angle," he says, extending his fist. "Your wrist must align with your arm. If it doesn't, you'll break your bones on impact."
I nod, mimicking the motion. My punch is too wide, my arm stiff and awkward. Pyre sighs, stepping closer.
"Control," he says, adjusting my arm. "Don't swing wildly. Every movement has a purpose."
I try again, and again, and again. Each punch feels clumsy, too slow, too weak. My frustration builds with every failure, but Pyre doesn't let up.
"Again," he says. "Until it's right."
The next morning, Pyre wakes me before dawn. The air is cold, the forest still cloaked in shadows. He leads me to a clearing where jagged rocks and fallen logs litter the ground.
"Before you can fight," he says, "you need a body that can endure."
What follows is a grueling series of exercises. Pyre makes me sprint back and forth across the clearing until my legs feel like lead. He has me climb trees, my fingers scraping against the rough bark, until my arms tremble with exhaustion.
By midday, my body screams for rest, but Pyre doesn't relent. He points to a large rock, jagged and heavy. "Lift it," he says.
I glare at him, my chest heaving. "Too… heavy," I manage to say, my newly learned words halting and clumsy.
He crosses his arms, his expression cold. "Then die under something heavier," he says simply.
The wolf barks from the sidelines, its tail wagging as if amused by my struggle. I grit my teeth, digging my fingers under the rock's edge, and with a guttural growl, I lift.
The days blur into weeks, each one more grueling than the last. Pyre drills me relentlessly, his corrections sharp and unyielding. Every mistake is met with a harsh critique, every failure a painful reminder of how far I still have to go.
"Stop flailing," he says one day after I throw a particularly wild punch. "You're not a beast anymore. Fight with control."
I try again, but my movements are clumsy, my body still fighting against the rigid structure of his training.
"Too slow," he says, sidestepping my attack effortlessly. "You're wasting energy."
The frustration builds, a hot, burning knot in my chest. One afternoon, after hours of failed drills, I slam my fists into the ground, growling in frustration.
Pyre crouches beside me, his gaze sharp but unreadable. "Giving up?" he asks.
I shake my head, my breathing ragged. "Hard," I manage to say, the word feeling inadequate to describe the sheer difficulty of what he's asking.
"Of course it's hard," he says, his tone almost amused. "If it were easy, you'd already be dead."
The turning point comes during a sparring session. Pyre moves with his usual speed and precision, his attacks relentless. But something in me shifts. I stop overthinking, stop fighting against the flow of his movements, and instead, I move with them.
When he throws a punch, I duck, my body reacting instinctively. When he sweeps his leg, I jump, countering with a jab that catches him off guard.
"Better," Pyre says, stepping back. There's a flicker of approval in his eyes, and for the first time, I feel… proud.
One evening, as the sun dips below the horizon, casting the forest in shades of gold and crimson, Pyre stands beside me. His gaze is distant, thoughtful.
"You've come a long way Ash," he says finally. "But you're still not ready."
I nod, my body battered but stronger than ever.
He pauses, then looks at me with a rare softness in his eyes. "Ash," he says, tapping his chest. "You burn through everything in your path, but you rise stronger each time. Like the fire you've earned your name from."
The words settle over me, heavy but fitting. I nod slowly, feeling a strange sense of acceptance.
"Ash," I repeat, the word solidifying in my mind.
Pyre smirks. "Don't let it go to your head," he says. "We're just getting started."
The training continues, but now there's a new fire in my chest. My punches are sharper, my movements more fluid, and my instincts no longer control me—they guide me. Pyre watches my progress with a steady gaze, his approval silent but clear.
"This is only the beginning," he says one evening as we stand under the starlit sky. "The real challenge is still ahead."
And I know he's right. But for the first time, I feel ready.