“The Dark Woods…” Adlet repeated quietly.

  The name wasn’t unfamiliar—but it wasn’t truly known either. He remembered it from the map pinned to the classroom wall, from the teacher’s voice lowering as he spoke of distant regions where villages gave way to something harsher. Far to the north. Beyond cultivated lands. A place described, never explained.

  “Yes,” Lathandre said. “That region.”

  “To be admitted to the Academy, an aspiring Protector must have assimilated a beast and be able to declare its nature. Outside dangerous zones, that is almost impossible. Which means there are steps that can only be taken there.”

  He paused, allowing Adlet to connect the pieces on his own.

  “But that is not the only reason,” he continued. “Now that you understand how your power functions, you stand at the first threshold. What we classify as Rank 1—the initial state of an Aura.”

  Adlet listened, focused.

  “At this stage,” Lathandre went on, “there is no substitute for confrontation. Theory ends here. Progress comes from facing Apexes directly.”

  Something tightened in Adlet’s chest—not fear, but a sharp, contained anticipation.

  “When?” he asked.

  Lathandre studied him.

  “Usually, Protectors train for years before their first true encounter,” he said. “Even now, rushing into the Dark Woods would be reckless.”

  Adlet hesitated, then voiced the question that had been forming since the name was spoken.

  “And you?”

  “You won’t go with me?”

  “I cannot,” Lathandre replied calmly. “The assimilation must be done alone. That rule exists for a reason.”

  The word alone settled heavily.

  “We will leave in three months,” Lathandre continued. “If I judge you ready. That will give us enough time to register you properly—and secure your place at Darwin Academy.”

  Adlet straightened, resolve firming.

  “I’ll be ready, Master.”

  The training that followed erased any doubt about what ready meant.

  Each day, under Lathandre’s supervision, Adlet pushed himself until his muscles trembled and his Aura thinned, then was forced to stop and recover. Rest was never comfortable—it came with aching limbs, shallow sleep, and the constant awareness of limits being redrawn.

  Day after day, those limits shifted.

  His breath recovered faster.

  His stance grew steadier.

  His reactions sharpened until hesitation began to vanish.

  At home, he finally told his parents the truth.

  Convincing them he had become a Protector was simple. He lifted the heavy oak dining table as if it were nothing, the wood groaning softly in protest.

  Convincing them to let him leave was harder.

  But his resolve did not bend—and with Lathandre standing silently at his side, they eventually agreed.

  The weeks blurred together.

  Then they were gone.

  On the morning of departure, Adlet met Lathandre at their usual rendezvous point on the outskirts of Eos.

  His pack was tight against his shoulders.

  The air felt sharper than usual.

  Lathandre scanned him briefly, eyes lingering just long enough to weigh something unseen.

  “Once we leave,” he said, “there is no turning back.”

  Adlet tightened his grip on the straps.

  “I have no intention of turning back.”

  This wasn’t wandering anymore.

  This was leaving.

  They headed northeast, away from tilled fields and familiar paths. The land grew rougher, the ground less forgiving beneath Adlet’s boots. The journey itself became training—long marches, uneven terrain, silence that demanded awareness.

  “Your body has changed,” Lathandre observed one evening as they walked. “Now you must learn to use it properly.”

  That became the rule of the road.

  Without warning—

  Crack.

  Pain snapped against Adlet’s cheek.

  “What the—?!”

  An acorn struck. Then another. Then another.

  Lathandre flicked them from his fingers with terrifying accuracy, each impact landing precisely where it forced Adlet’s muscles to react.

  “You sense danger,” the master said calmly. “But sensing is useless if you cannot respond.”

  Adlet clenched his jaw and focused.

  Soon his hands moved before thought—batting one acorn aside, then twisting his body to avoid the next. The ones he failed to stop left sharp reminders blooming across his skin.

  When Lathandre began running, Adlet followed.

  No pacing.

  No breaks.

  No mercy.

  Dust coated his throat. His lungs burned. Each time his legs shook, Lathandre only said:

  “Protector work does not pause because you are tired.”

  And Adlet kept moving.

  At mealtime, Adlet expected rest.

  He was wrong.

  Lathandre rolled a smooth boulder toward him. Not massive—but heavy enough to make a mistake lethal.

  “You may eat,” he said, “as long as you hold this above your head with one arm.”

  Adlet stared.

  “What? While eating—”

  The look ended the protest.

  He lifted.

  His arm trembled almost immediately. He swapped sides when one began to fail, soup sloshing dangerously close to his face.

  “You have power now,” Lathandre said calmly as he ate.

  “Strength without stability will only get you killed.”

  At night, beneath the faint glow of the Stars etched into the stone ceiling of their shelter, Adlet cleaned his cuts and bruises.

  His body wasn’t the only thing under examination.

  “What did you learn today?”

  “What fear slowed you down?”

  Every answer mattered.

  Every silence mattered more.

  Day by day, the changes became impossible to ignore.

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  Fewer acorns struck him during their exercises.

  His breathing no longer burned for long.

  His arms held the boulder steady where they once trembled.

  The doubt that had lingered in his gaze slowly dissolved.

  He wasn’t merely stronger.

  He was becoming precise.

  Measured.

  Efficient.

  Weeks passed beneath their steady march.

  The land itself began to shift.

  The wild stretches between settlements grew shorter. Villages appeared more frequently along the road—larger, more fortified. Paths became proper roads, packed earth edged with stone. Signs of patrols, watch posts, and cleared sightlines marked a territory that expected danger.

  Then Adlet saw it.

  A massive wooden wall rose across the landscape, constructed from sharpened logs driven deep into the earth. Nearly fifteen meters tall, it stretched far beyond what he could see, a brutal line drawn between safety and something far older. Beyond it stood a forest of dark pines, their crowns dense enough to swallow what little light reached them.

  The Dark Woods.

  His chest tightened—not with fear.

  With anticipation.

  They approached a fortified settlement built against the wall’s outer edge. The air felt heavier here, charged with vigilance. Guards watched from raised platforms. Eyes followed every movement, weighing intent as much as threat.

  “Aren’t we going straight in?” Adlet asked, unable to keep the tension from his voice.

  Lathandre didn’t slow.

  “We must first obtain permission,” he replied. “This is an outpost. Protectors patrol this region and watch the wall.”

  Adlet glanced around.

  “So only Protectors live here?”

  “No,” Lathandre said calmly. “They are far too rare for that. Perhaps a hundred inhabitants in total. Only a handful are Protectors.”

  The village’s layout was familiar—houses, storage sheds, a central square—but the atmosphere was different. Purpose replaced comfort. Everything here faced the wall, oriented toward what lay beyond it.

  They stopped before a stone building set slightly apart from the rest. Its facade bore a carved symbol: a three-branched spiral, weathered but unmistakable.

  A man stood guard at the entrance, posture rigid, armor worn smooth by years of use. A metal medallion bearing the same symbol rested against his chest.

  “I wish to register my student as an aspiring Protector,” Lathandre said evenly.

  He produced a golden insignia.

  The guard’s reaction was immediate.

  His spine straightened, hand snapping to his chest in reflex. His gaze flicked from the insignia to Lathandre’s face—then lingered, reassessing everything he thought he knew.

  “…Of course,” the man said, voice carefully respectful. “Your student’s name?”

  “Adlet.”

  Inside, the process was efficient. Forms were brought out. Names recorded. Measurements taken. All businesslike—yet every movement carried a quiet gravity.

  While the guard worked, Lathandre spoke without looking at Adlet.

  “If you wish to pass your test,” he said softly, “you must defeat at least three Apexes. Different species. No limit on time.”

  Adlet’s jaw set.

  “I won’t run.”

  Soon, the final gate loomed before him—thick, reinforced, scarred by impact and repair.

  The guard hesitated, then asked, “You carry no weapon?”

  “My master trained me unarmed,” Adlet replied.

  The man studied him for a moment, then nodded once.

  “A wise choice. Weapons rarely channel Aura well.”

  The gate groaned open.

  “Once inside,” the guard said, “you are alone. If you succeed—or if you abandon the trial—return here and ring the bell.”

  Adlet stepped forward.

  “Understood.”

  The gate closed behind him.

  The sound echoed longer than it should have.

  The Dark Woods did not announce themselves.

  Sound simply… faded.

  The moment Adlet crossed the threshold, the world dulled. No birdsong. No wind moving freely through branches. Even his footsteps felt swallowed, as though the forest refused to echo him back.

  Cold pressed against his skin, seeping through fabric and flesh alike. The air smelled old—damp earth, decaying wood, layers of time stacked one atop another. Light thinned rapidly beneath the towering pines, their interwoven crowns choking it into a perpetual twilight.

  Midday, he realized distantly.

  Yet it felt like evening.

  Adlet slowed his pace. Every movement became deliberate. Not cautious in fear—but in respect. This was not a place meant for wandering.

  His breath sounded too loud.

  He forced it steady.

  This was it.

  The dangerous zone he had heard about since childhood. Not a story. Not a lesson pinned to a board.

  Reality.

  As he walked, his thoughts drifted despite himself. To the village. To his parents. To the gate closing behind him. A strange calm settled in his chest—not peace, but focus. The kind that narrowed the world to what mattered.

  Survive.

  Observe.

  Learn.

  Two hours passed.

  Then—

  A crack.

  Dry. Heavy. Not the sound of a branch falling on its own.

  Adlet stopped instantly.

  He adjusted his path, circling through thorns and low brush, careful not to announce himself. The clearing revealed itself slowly.

  And at its center—

  A boar.

  Gigantic. Its jet-black fur bristled like coarse iron wire. Massive tusks curved forward, stained dark at the tips. In its jaws, bone splintered and vanished with a wet crunch.

  Adlet felt his pulse quicken.

  But not with dread.

  Within reach.

  The thought surprised him.

  He picked up a stone and threw it.

  The boar turned—and charged.

  The ground shook beneath its weight.

  Adlet met it head-on.

  The collision drove him backward, boots carving furrows into the dirt. Pain flared as a tusk scraped across his ribs, breath tearing from his lungs.

  So strong—

  Stronger than he expected.

  But his arms held.

  Dark pressure surged beneath his skin. He forced the beast downward, muscles screaming, then slammed it sideways into a tree. The trunk shuddered. Bark exploded outward.

  The boar sagged.

  Adlet released it only once its weight truly left his arms. The massive body collapsed against the earth with a dull finality that echoed strangely in the clearing.

  For a long moment, he didn’t move.

  His chest rose and fell in harsh, uneven pulls. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the aftershock. The fading vibration of force still hummed through his muscles, unfamiliar and intoxicating.

  That was… me?

  He looked down at his palms, flexed his fingers slowly, as if expecting them to feel different.

  Power rose from the fallen beast in a soft drift of light. Pale particles peeled away from the boar’s form, lifting gently into the air before flowing toward him, dissolving into his chest and limbs like warmth sinking into bone.

  The body remained.

  Whole. Heavy. Real.

  Adlet inclined his head once.

  Not in triumph.

  In acknowledgment.

  He worked carefully after that. Methodically. Each cut deliberate, respectful. The labor grounded him, kept his thoughts from racing too far ahead of what he had just done.

  When the meat cooked over a small fire, the scent spread through the clearing—rich, earthy, unmistakably alive. He ate slowly, sitting near the flames, eyes occasionally lifting to the trees beyond.

  A meal earned.

  As the light thinned and the forest darkened, Adlet felt the day finally catch up to him. He extinguished the fire completely, scattering the embers until nothing glowed.

  He looked upward.

  No Stars.

  Only darkness pressing down through branches and stone, the world sealed shut above him.

  He climbed.

  Not too high. Not recklessly. Just enough to be out of easy reach. He wedged himself between thick limbs, tying together a crude resting place with practiced movements. Only when he was secure did he allow his muscles to loosen.

  The forest breathed beneath him.

  Minutes passed.

  Then—

  Something changed.

  A pressure settled low in his chest. Not sound. Not movement.

  Presence.

  Adlet opened his eyes.

  He leaned forward slightly, peering down through the lattice of branches and leaves. Darkness pooled at the base of the trees, thick and unmoving. Too still.

  His fingers tightened around the bark.

  Nothing revealed itself.

  That was worse.

  He waited.

  Counted his breaths.

  The feeling didn’t fade.

  If something was there, hiding, then height meant nothing. Not against patience.

  With a quiet exhale, Adlet began to descend.

  Slowly. Carefully. Every movement controlled. He tested each foothold before trusting it, lowering himself branch by branch until his boots touched the ground.

  The forest felt different down here.

  Closer.

  He straightened, senses stretched thin.

  And then he saw them.

  Between the roots ahead, two faint points of light hovered in the darkness.

  Eyes.

  Still.

  Watching.

  Adlet’s body tightened instantly.

  The eyes did not advance.

  Did not retreat.

  Then—

  Motion.

  A blur burst from behind him.

  Adlet reacted without thought.

  He twisted sharply, instinct taking over as claws slashed through the space where his neck had been a heartbeat earlier. Pain flared along his shoulder—hot, sharp—as something grazed him before landing in the undergrowth below.

  He stumbled, caught himself, breath tearing free as adrenaline flooded his veins.

  Another shape stepped forward.

  Then another.

  Three wolves emerged from the shadows, spreading out with practiced ease, their movements silent, coordinated. Apexes.

  He was surrounded.

  The weight of the Dark Woods pressed down on him, heavy and absolute.

  Fear didn’t come.

  Fire did.

  Tonight, he would prove it.

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