Reivo reached the training yard just as the sun began to peek over the fortress walls, casting long golden beams across the stone floor. The morning was brisk, and the sharp wind tugged at his clothes, but he barely noticed.
As always, Baker stood in the center of the yard, hand resting on the wooden cane, face unreadable under his thick beard. He watched Reivo approach with the quiet intensity of a man who had seen too many mornings start in blood.
"You're late for a breath," Baker said. "Did you sleep over?"
Reivo didn't blink. "I don't sleep."
Baker frowned slightly, studying him. "That… ain't a figure of speech, is it?"
"No."
Something in Baker's gaze sharpened. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like a hunter noticing a shift in the wind. "You feel... different. Like I'm being watched, even when you're not lookin' at me."
Reivo didn't respond. He just stared, unblinking.
Baker let out a grunt. "Alright then. Let's put it to the test. Warm-up drills."
They began with the usual routines—stances, slashes, evasion rolls—but something was off. Or rather, something was on. Reivo flowed through the movements like water through a channel. His body responded before his mind commanded it.
He parried the wooden cane mid-motion without fully realizing Baker had struck. His pivot on a slippery stone was too precise, weight already shifted before impact. When he ducked, it was always just low enough. When he struck, his wrist twisted for that perfect angle of impact.
Baker noticed.
"You're faster," he said after a few rounds, breath slightly labored. "No… not just fast. Sharp. Your body's reading ahead of mine like it knows what I'll do."
Reivo didn't confirm or deny. He just adjusted his grip. "Next."
Baker nodded, stepping back. "Sparring, then. Let's see what that edge of yours can cut."
---
The first opponent was Carlen, a bulky recruit with a blunt great sword, who favored brute strength over finesse. They circled each other on the packed dirt, eyes locked.
Carlen came in with a heavy overhead swing.
Reivo sidestepped. Not dodged—moved—as if he'd already seen the blow land. The training sword whistled through empty air, and before Carlen could blink, Reivo's own short-blade smacked hard against the man's ribs.
The boy grunted, staggered back, and raised his guard.
Reivo didn't give him the chance.
He stepped in close, kicked Carlen's leg out, and caught him from the shirt across the shoulder, then he throwed the big man over his shoulder slamming the guy to the ground.
"Next," Reivo said, already turning.
---
The second sparring partner was faster—Deyn, lean and agile, known for flitting around larger opponents like a fox. She opened with feints, weaving back and forth to break Reivo's timing.
It didn't work.
Reivo didn't react to her bait. He watched. Waited.
Then he stepped forward, just once—and swung.
Deyn barely parried, her blade vibrating in her grip from the sheer force behind his calculated blow. She lunged to counter—
And Reivo wasn't there.
He was behind her. His short sword rested gently against her exposed neck.
"Yield," he said.
She did.
---
A third spar. Then a fourth. Each faster, more aggressive than the last. But Reivo kept overwhelming them. His strikes weren't wild or flashy—they were precise, surgical. His footwork had no hesitation. He moved like someone who had danced with monsters and learned rhythm in a nightmare.
Baker finally called a halt.
"Enough," the instructor said. "You've proved your point."
Reivo straightened, barely winded. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, but his breath was steady. He stared down at the blunted sword in his hand.
Too easy.
The training yard was silent, save for the wind and the recruits whispering.
"He didn't blink once."
"What the hell's gotten into him?"
Baker approached, his voice lower now. "Whatever you did last night—it stuck. That pressure I feel around you—it ain't normal."
Reivo didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Instead, he walked toward the rack to return the sword. He passed a group of young trainees, and they shied away without realizing why. Their instincts screamed at them to move. To avoid. To submit.
Dreamless Murmur was doing its work.
And Reivo… was becoming someone new.