Spring wasn't soft in this part of the woods.
It didn't come with sunshine and lazy breezes. It arrived like a wave—soggy and insistent, flooding low paths, snapping old branches, and dragging the scent of wet bark and thawed earth into the bones of the forest.
Orion didn't mind. The trees creaked less, and the wind was warmer now. He could sleep without a fire if he had to.
More importantly, Tyrunt didn't seem to mind either. His footing was better now. Less stumbling. Less slipping. The first few months, the dragon had charged around like a hammer looking for a nail, unaware of where his own mass ended. But lately, he'd begun to watch the ground as he walked, to lean with his movement, to shift his center like a creature learning what it meant to weigh more than a boulder.
They trained most mornings now. Not like the League's polished routines—not with obstacle courses and whistles and repetition. Orion wasn't interested in memorizing attack names or rehearsing flashy sequences. He wanted Tyrunt to be strong, yes, but also smart. He wanted coordination. Stamina. Intuition. Something a little more refined than "bite hard and hope for the best."
And Tyrunt, to his credit, wasn't fighting the change.
On a cool morning in late spring, Orion led him out to the wide stone clearing behind the cabin—flat ground, sturdy roots, nothing breakable—and began the day's routine.
They started with sprint bursts. Short dashes across the clearing, stop-start commands, then redirection on the fly. Tyrunt wasn't fast. His legs weren't built for it. But he had explosive drive—like a spring coiled too tightly, and when released, all the force went forward at once.
After that came bite work. Not on meat, not on rope. On logs. Chunks of wood salvaged from downed trees. Orion tossed them, pointed, and waited.
Tyrunt would chomp, shake, and return with half a tree in his mouth like he'd just hunted it himself.
"You know," Orion muttered after the third log splintered on contact, "eventually we're going to run out of firewood."
Tyrunt responded by sneezing wood dust onto his boots.
In the afternoons, Orion studied.
Reid had gathered up what papers and books he could find—old League rulebooks, study guides, and a battered packet of flashcards with yellowed corners. The written trainer exam wasn't just about knowing your Pokémon. It was about knowing the system: type matchups, wilderness protocol, League rules, trainer ethics, battle conduct, capture law, and the kind of practical survival knowledge that most city kids never had to learn the hard way.
Orion didn't mind the content. He liked learning. He especially liked learning things most people would rather keep secret.
But he hated how the materials were written—sterile, rigid, like they wanted to funnel every trainer through the same tube.
He knew already that he didn't fit that mold.
So he made his own system.
He set up a table inside the cabin with three neatly labeled stacks:
Tyrunt: Behavior + Battle
Exam Notes
Future Partners + Circuit Planning
The first was a growing field journal—bite strength estimates, stamina limitations, dietary habits, behavioral triggers, resting positions, stress responses. He tracked patterns like a researcher. It helped him feel like he was actually preparing, not just reacting to whatever Tyrunt broke next.
The second was mostly memorization—League structure flowcharts, gym scheduling expectations, the basics of how licenses translated between regions, and the strange bureaucracy around Pokémon welfare policy.
And the third… that one was still in flux.
It wasn't a team yet. Just ideas.
He tapped his pencil against the margin of the "Circuit Planning" sheet and stared down at the few names he'd jotted down.
Geodude was still on the list. He knew the species. Reliable, low-maintenance, built for terrain like this. Rock types had their limits, sure, but their stability made them a good base to build from. A Golem in the future could be an asset. Only problem was the evolution method—most Golems required a trade to evolve, and Orion wasn't sure if that would even be possible. Still, worth considering.
Machop was another he'd seen before, years ago near the southern cliffs. Tough little things. Muscular. Disciplined. A natural fighter. The Machamp line had presence, which could be useful if he ended up battling more than just wild Pokémon.
He paused.
Crossed out Electrike—too skittish. Scratched out Houndour too—Reid's partner was enough dog for one lifetime.
He flipped to a fresh page and wrote a new header:
Team Balance Goals
One close-quarters powerhouse (✓ Tyrunt)
One ranged or precision-type (TBD)
One defensive anchor
One utility/support
One flyer
One wild card
He wasn't going to rush to fill slots.
But having a framework helped.
That evening, as he reviewed his type coverage notes and plotted theoretical battle rotations, Tyrunt wandered into the cabin with something in his mouth.
At first, Orion didn't look up.
Not until he heard the snap.
When he turned, Tyrunt was proudly presenting a metal hinge—specifically, the top bracket from the cabin's storage chest.
Orion stared at it. Then at Tyrunt. Then at the gaping hole where the lock mechanism used to be.
"That's the third one," he said slowly.
Tyrunt, unbothered, sat down and let the hinge clatter to the floor.
Reid, who had been quietly skinning fish by the back window, didn't even blink. "Maybe stop locking things with your teeth."
"I wasn't locking him with them," Orion replied. "I was locking food from him."
"Same result."
Orion sighed and crossed out the note he'd just written about "improved restraint."
They trained again the next morning. Not just sprints or bite exercises—Orion added a drill he'd read about in an old League ranger manual.
Tyrunt had to hold a bite—not crush, not tear, not snap—just hold pressure on a target until Orion gave the release command.
It was harder than it sounded.
The first target lasted six seconds before being torn in half.
The second, a sandbag, survived eight.
The third was a reinforced practice post that Orion had dug three feet into the ground and braced with stone.
It lasted five.
"I think you're trying to fail," Orion said, watching the wooden shards scatter.
Tyrunt shook out his jaws and snorted.
Orion marked the timing anyway.
Progress, in its own chaotic way.
In the late afternoon, Orion sat outside with his books open and Tyrunt sunning himself like a lazy predator. The breeze smelled like bark and pine resin. The kind of day that reminded you it wouldn't be spring forever.
He turned a page and reread the exam instructions for the fourth time.
Written exam. Sixty questions. Three hours. No assistance allowed. Held in person at a registered center. Late entries disqualified.
He'd do fine. Probably.
He leaned back, scratched another note in the margin, and flipped to the next page.