**Chapter 3: The Wisdom of the Elders**
The sun had barely risen when Riven stood in front of the small, weathered cabin nestled at the edge of the village. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the sound of birds greeting the dawn, but his mind was focused on something else entirely. He had agreed to meet with Jarek today—an old friend of Kieran's, and someone Riven had heard much about but never met in person.
Jarek was known throughout the region for his combat prowess. A veteran warrior who had fought in countless battles, his name carried weight, but his rough exterior and no-nonsense attitude had earned him a reputation as someone hard to approach. Still, Riven knew that if he wanted to improve his skills in physical combat, there was no better teacher.
Kieran had spoken highly of Jarek during their brief stay in the village. "He's not much for pleasantries," Kieran had said with a grin. "But he knows more about fighting than anyone I've ever met. You'll learn a lot from him, if you can keep up."
As Riven approached the cabin, he found the man himself standing outside, sharpening a long, battle-worn sword. His silver hair was tied back into a rough ponytail, and his face, though lined with age, was still as sharp as the blade he worked on. Jarek's dark eyes flicked up from his sword as Riven drew near, a grunt of acknowledgment escaping him.
"You're late," Jarek said, his gravelly voice cutting through the morning air.
Riven didn't flinch at the sharpness in his tone. "Apologies. I got caught up with some things in the village."
Jarek grunted again, but it wasn't a sound of disdain—it was a sign of understanding, or at least, acceptance. "Get inside. We've got a lot of work to do."
The inside of the cabin was simple—bare wooden walls adorned with weapons and battle trophies. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the air was thick with the scent of burnt wood and the faint smell of sweat. Riven couldn't help but feel a sense of respect for the place, its simplicity belying the decades of experience and knowledge it housed.
"Sit," Jarek instructed, gesturing to a small, rough-hewn table. "I'll make this simple. You've got power, I can see that. Magic, the sword, the beasts. But none of that will matter if you don't know how to fight with your own hands."
Riven took a seat, his posture straight, waiting for the lesson to begin. He had already learned much about magic, about the ways it could amplify his strength. But Jarek's words struck a chord deep within him. Power wasn't just about magic. It was about control, about being able to hold your ground without relying on the crutch of spells or beasts.
Jarek sat down across from him, his gaze sharp as he looked at Riven. "You've got raw talent, but you're green. You think too much about the flashy stuff—the fireballs, the spells. You need to get comfortable with your body first. You can't think of combat as just an exchange of energy. It's a conversation. It's rhythm. And you, boy, are out of sync."
Riven swallowed the instinctual retort that rose in his throat. He wasn't one to back down, but he understood that Jarek's words came from years of hard-earned experience. "What do I do then?" he asked, genuinely curious.
Jarek smiled—if it could be called that. It was a tight, grim expression, but it was as close to warmth as Riven was going to get from him. "You start by learning the basics. Footwork, balance, timing. After that, we'll move on to how to use your own body as a weapon. Magic's all well and good, but it's useless if you don't have the foundation."
---
**The First Lesson: Footwork**
The first lesson was as grueling as it was simple. Jarek began by making Riven move—back and forth, side to side, quickly and precisely. At first, Riven had trouble keeping up. His body was accustomed to the bursts of magical power, to the fluidity of spellcasting, but this was different. This was about grounding himself in the physical world, using his legs, his core, his every muscle to stay balanced, to stay ready.
"Don't think, just move," Jarek barked, his voice sharp as he watched Riven stumble. "If you think about every step, you'll freeze. Combat isn't about strategy, not when it's in motion. It's about instinct. Do you have it?"
Riven gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus. The sweat was already beginning to gather on his brow, but he ignored it. He'd trained with his magic for years, but this was new—this was raw, unfiltered power. And the more he focused on it, the more he felt his connection to the physical world. It was different from how he'd always seen combat, but it was powerful in its own right.
After hours of repeated footwork drills, Jarek finally called a halt. "Good. You're not there yet, but you're starting to get it."
Riven, panting and drenched in sweat, nodded. He hadn't expected it to be easy, but the lesson had driven home something important. Magic was an extension of his body, but it was only as effective as the body that wielded it.
---
**The Second Lesson: Fighting with Your Body**
As the day wore on, Jarek moved on to more physical combat. This time, he showed Riven how to use his fists, his elbows, and his knees—simple but devastating strikes that didn't require a weapon. He didn't need to explain why; Riven could feel the power in the movement, the release of tension in each punch.
But even more than that, Jarek taught him how to think like a fighter. "Combat is about flow," Jarek said, his face serious as he demonstrated the movements. "You're not trying to overwhelm your enemy with sheer force. You're trying to find their weak points, their rhythm. Once you know that, you control the fight."
Riven, despite his exhaustion, felt a new understanding seep into his mind. Magic had always been a way for him to take control of a situation, to bend the world to his will. But there was something different about controlling a fight through sheer physical prowess. It was about patience. About precision. And most importantly, about knowing when to act and when to hold back.
---
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Jarek sat beside Riven by the fire, a rare moment of quiet between them. The day had been long, filled with lessons that stretched Riven's limits both physically and mentally. Yet, in the exhaustion, he felt something different—something he hadn't felt in a long time. Purpose.
"You did well today," Jarek said, his voice softer than usual. "Not bad for someone so used to relying on magic. But you've got a lot to learn still. Just remember, a warrior doesn't need to rely on tricks. A warrior relies on his body and his mind."
Riven sat in silence for a moment, processing the lessons, letting them sink in. He hadn't expected to feel such a sense of clarity after a single day, but there it was. Jarek had given him something invaluable—not just combat techniques, but a new perspective on strength.
"Thanks," Riven said quietly. "I didn't realize how much I was missing."
Jarek grunted, but his expression softened. "You'll get there. Just remember, magic's only a tool. If you can't back it up with your own hands, it's worthless."
As they sat there, the fire crackling between them, Riven felt a shift inside him. He had started this journey seeking power, but now, for the first time, he realized that true strength came from within. It wasn't about what he could do—it was about how he could adapt, how he could grow, and how he could learn from those who had walked the path before him.
As the night settled around them, Riven made a silent promise to himself. He would continue to train, continue to push his limits—not just for the sake of power, but for the sake of those he cared about. For the sake of his friends, his beasts, and the future that was still uncertain.
Tomorrow would bring more lessons. But for tonight, he could rest—knowing that, piece by piece, he was becoming the warrior he had always needed to be.