The forest was quiet, save for the whisper of wind threading through the trees. The cabin stood as it always had—weatherworn, hidden, forgotten. But something had changed.
A figure moved through the clearing with the grace of a shadow. Barefoot. Bare-chested. Muscles coiled beneath skin marked by years of scars and silent wars. His breath steady. His eyes focused.
Blake.
Nine years had carved away the boy he once was—chiseling him into something sharper, stronger, quieter. A predator, forged in fire and frost.
He stood before a tall wooden post wrapped in rope. In one smooth breath, he stepped forward—and struck.
The post cracked violently, the force echoing like thunder through the trees. Another strike. Then another. His movements blurred—precise, brutal, controlled. Not a wasted ounce of energy.
Malrek stood a distance away, arms folded.
"You've come further than I expected," he said quietly.
Blake didn't answer. He was locked in. Focusing his breathing. Seeing through motion. Feeling every heartbeat like it was tied to the rhythm of the earth.
Malrek walked closer, gaze solemn.
"You remember what I told you? About the Veymora State?"
Blake slowed. The name was sacred now—etched into him like the blade at his side.
"A state of perfect focus," Malrek went on. "Where the body unlocks its full potential. Strength of a thousand men. Eyes like a hawk. Movements faster than lightning. A god inside mortal flesh."
Blake nodded.
"But…" Malrek's voice dropped, "...it drains everything. You burn through life itself. A few minutes of glory… for days of weakness. Maybe death."
He paused. "I tried. Failed. My spirit cracked."
Blake stepped away from the shattered post. His breathing had slowed again—so calm it was eerie.
"That's why I'll learn it." His voice was low. Quietly certain. "Because you couldn't. Because no one expects I can."
Malrek didn't argue.
He only watched Blake walk back into the forest, vanishing like smoke.
The morning Blake left the cabin, the forest was still—the air, was cold and biting. Malrek stood by the threshold, arms crossed, eyes unreadable behind his mask.
"No weapons," he said. "Only your body, your training, and your mind. Bring me the feather of a phoenix... and return alive."
Blake gave a single nod and disappeared into the mist.
In the Mountains
The path to the phoenix's roost was carved through jagged peaks and frozen gorges. Blake wandered for weeks—hunted for food, slept beneath ancient trees, and braved nights where the wind sang like a dying god.
Resources dwindled. His cloak became ragged. His body thin. But his eyes—those stayed sharp. Focused.
Finally, deep in the bones of the mountain, he found it: a cave glowing faintly from within. Heat licked out from the shadows like a whisper.
He stepped inside.
There, curled in a nest of blackened stone and scorched bone, lay a baby phoenix—its feathers a soft ember orange, its breathing deep and slow. A rare chance.
Blake moved like a ghost. Step by step. Breath by breath.
Fingers reached.
Feathers brushed.
Then—flame erupted.
The phoenix screeched, its wings unfurling in a blast of fire. Blake was flung back, rolling across the seared stone as the young creature grew before his eyes—flames roaring across its body, its eyes molten with fury.
The battle began.
Blake dodged a blazing claw, leapt over a sweeping wing of fire. He struck with fists and daggers made from stone. The cave trembled with each exchange—heat burning his lungs, smoke clouding his vision.
Then, a moment.
The bird reared up to release a final blast of flame—
—and Blake was already mid-air, diving past the fire, blade in hand, rage in his blood.
He struck.
The phoenix screamed—a final, echoing cry—as its wings shattered, feathers exploding into embers. It collapsed in a storm of light and ash.
Breathing heavily, Blake approached the dying beast. Its fire dimmed. No malice in its eyes now—only silence.
"Forgive me," he whispered.
He took three feathers, still warm with magic, and a vial of the phoenix's blood. Carefully stored. Reverently sealed.
Return to the Cabin
When Blake returned, he looked older. His cloak was burned through. His skin bore fresh scars. But his eyes…
They were brighter.
He dropped the blood vial and feathers on the table before Malrek, who didn't speak for a long time.
"You killed it," he said at last.
Blake nodded.
"You could've died."
"But I didn't."
Malrek stared at him, then nodded slowly. "Then you're ready....but first one final test."
The cabin stood silent beneath the twilight sky. Inside, the air was tense—thick with unspoken challenge. Malrek stepped into the clearing behind the cabin, sword already in hand. His obsidian mask glinted in the dying light, eyes sharp and unreadable. His black hair moved gently with the wind.
Blake emerged moments later. His long white hair, tied at the back, shimmered in the dusk. His ice-blue eyes were calm, but behind them burned a steady storm. He drew his sword without a word.
Malrek's voice cut the silence.
"One final test. If you truly wish to walk the path we're about to tread, you'll have to prove you can stand even against me."
Blake gave a small nod, and the two men lunged.
Steel clashed against steel. The ring of blades echoed through the woods.
Blake moved with fluid grace—each swing backed by nine years of relentless training. Malrek countered with effortless precision, his blade a whisper through the air.
They circled, traded blows, broke apart, then clashed again. Sparks flew. Dust kicked up beneath their feet.
A sudden misstep. Blake's sword was knocked from his hand, spinning across the ground. He didn't hesitate—pulled a dagger from his belt and charged.
Malrek smirked beneath his mask. "That all you've got?"
The fight continued—swift, brutal, close-quarters. Blake's dagger slashed and stabbed, but Malrek's reach kept him barely out of range.
Then—a twist and a strike—Malrek knocked the dagger clean out of Blake's hand.
Now unarmed, Blake stood, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his jaw.
Malrek raised his sword.
But instead of striking, he tossed it aside.
"Fair is fair," he said, cracking his neck. "Let's end this with fists."
They collided again.
Fists flew—bruising, breaking. Blake's punches were fast and relentless, his footwork calculated. He ducked under swings, drove knees into ribs, used trees and terrain to keep Malrek off balance.
But Malrek was stronger. Older. More precise.
A hard elbow to Blake's ribs dropped him to his knees—but Blake rolled, grabbed a branch, and used it to sweep Malrek's legs.
They crashed to the ground, rolling, dirt and blood smearing their clothes. Malrek landed a crushing blow to Blake's jaw. Blake countered with a headbutt that dazed them both.
Then Blake surged—mounted him, fists hammering down.
One hit.Two.Three—
Malrek's hand shot up—not to strike, but to yield.
"Enough!" he barked, breath ragged. "Enough… you win."
Blake froze, hand mid-swing. Blood dripped from his knuckles.
Silence.
Malrek exhaled and let his head fall back against the dirt. "You've grown, Blake. Stronger than I ever was at your age."
They sat in the quiet warmth of the cabin, firelight painting shadows across the wooden walls. The duel had left them bloodied and breathless, but the silence between them now was thick with mutual respect.
Blake leaned against the wall, pressing a cloth to his ribs. His white hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his bruised face. Across from him, Malrek wrapped a strip of fabric around his forearm, his sharp blue eyes—the only part of his face not hidden by the black cloth mask—focused on the task.
Blake broke the silence."Nine years," he said quietly. "I've done everything. Every lesson. Every scar. You promised—when I was ready, you'd tell me how you opened that portal back in the cave."
Malrek didn't glance up, but Blake saw the corner of his brow twitch."I remember."
"Well?" Blake pressed. "I'm ready. Teach me."
Malrek finally met his gaze. His voice was calm, but edged with something heavier."I can't. Because it's not something that can be taught."
Blake furrowed his brow."What do you mean?"
Malrek leaned back, resting his arms on his knees. The firelight flickered across his eyes, making them seem colder."It's called a Soulbrand. Every deviant, if they survive long enough, eventually develops one. It's our only gift—our only curse. Unique to each of us. Mine is called Warpwalk."
"Warpwalk?"
"It lets me open portals to any place I've been before," Malrek said. "Distance doesn't matter. Barriers don't matter. If I've stepped foot there, I can step back. It's instinct, not spellwork."
Blake blinked, absorbing the weight of that."And I'll get one too?"
Malrek's gaze softened, just slightly."Maybe. Maybe not. Soulbrands aren't guaranteed. They come from something deeper than the core. Sometimes it takes trauma. Sometimes clarity. Sometimes... death."
Blake stared into the fire."So I just have to wait?"
Malrek nodded."You'll know when it comes. Until then, stay alive."
Silence fell again. The flames crackled gently in the hearth.
Blake's voice cut through the quiet, steady and firm."It'll come. And when it does, I'll use it to burn everything they built to the ground."
Malrek's eyes narrowed, not in warning—but in understanding.
"Good," he said.
The days that followed the duel were quiet—quiet in a way that let the pain breathe. Blake and Malrek spent most of their time tending to cracked ribs, bruised knuckles, and the deep cuts that hadn't stopped bleeding until long after the fight was over. The cabin, once filled with the clang of swords and sharp commands, fell into a lull of recovery and reflection.
Blake lay on the old cot by the fire, re-reading one of the ancient tomes they'd studied together years ago. Malrek sat nearby, sharpening his blade in methodical silence. His mask remained firmly in place, as always—covering the lower half of his face, leaving only his sharp, emotionless eyes exposed. Blake had grown used to it, but the curiosity had never truly left him. Still, he never asked. Some truths, he sensed, were too heavy to speak of.
By the fourth day, the swelling had gone down, the wounds had scabbed over, and the air in the cabin had shifted. It was time.
Malrek stood at the doorway, tying the last strap of his cloak."Pack light. We travel on foot. There's a place we need to stop before reaching the province."
Blake slung his worn satchel over his shoulder and adjusted the black leather gloves he now wore."Where to?"
"The Black Market," Malrek replied. "Never been there myself. But they sell rare potions—strong ones. With the phoenix blood and feathers you brought back, we'll be able to craft elixirs that'll be more powerful than anything nobles could dream of."
Blake nodded, a slow grin forming on his face."Sounds like my kind of place."
They dressed in travel leathers—Malrek in his usual long, dark coat with reinforced shoulders, his sword strapped to his back. The coat bore no insignias, only the faint signs of long travel and quiet battles. His mask, black and form-fitting, covered his nose and mouth, and the hood cast a shadow over his features.
Blake wore a high-collared tunic of dark grey with deep blue stitching—practical, but sharp. A dagger was tucked into his belt, and the hilt of his sword peeked from behind his shoulder. His once-boyish frame had filled out over the years. He walked with quiet confidence now. His white hair fell past his shoulders, and his eyes burned with purpose.
As they stepped outside, the forest was calm. Birds scattered at the sound of their boots crunching snow-dusted leaves.
"So," Blake said after a while, falling into step beside Malrek, "you sure you're not just dragging me out there to sell me for a profit?"
Malrek glanced sideways, eyes narrowing playfully."You're worth far less than you think."
They both chuckled—and for a moment, the world felt lighter.
The path ahead was long, uncertain, and full of shadows. But for the first time in years, Blake didn't feel alone. They didn't speak often as they walked, but the silence between them was no longer filled with walls—it was the silence of two warriors who had bled together, laughed together, and were bound not by blood, but by survival.
As they disappeared into the woods, headed toward the dark heart of the kingdom and whatever awaited in the Black Market, the sun dipped below the trees—casting long shadows behind them.
The journey had begun.