Three weeks passed like the slow draw of a blade.
Each morning, Atlas trained. Alone.
Each afternoon, he studied. Silently.
Each night, the white realm returned. And with it, the shadow.
It never spoke.
It only waited.
At first it copied him—movements imperfect, unfinished. But by the sixth night, it moved faster. Cleaner. Sharper. The way *she* moved. Serenya. Calm feet. Quiet pivots. Blade held at half-guard, tip low, with enough gap to draw a line between ribs.
A dancer's stance.
A duelist's kill-zone.
He lost to it the first three times.
Not because it was stronger.
Because he hesitated.
The Second Fang wasn't about speed. It was about presence. About knowing the space between breath and steel, and owning it.
The moment he rushed, the shadow punished him.
The moment he hesitated, it vanished behind him and struck.
It didn't speak. But it didn't need to.
Atlas knew what it was telling him: **"You are not ready to hold distance."**
---
His departure from Golden Manor was set for dawn.
He didn't sleep the night before. He sat by the window, watching fog roll in over the western ridge like pale ghosts slipping between trees.
His packed gear sat beside the door. One spare blade, one set of black travelwear, rations, books. No luxury.
There was a knock.
Soft. Familiar.
He didn't answer. Just opened the door.
Cedric stood there, hair messy, eyes wide with sleep he'd clearly outrun.
"You weren't going to say goodbye," the boy said.
Atlas stepped aside.
"I was avoiding theatrics."
"You're leaving for three years."
"Four, technically."
Cedric scowled, stomping in. "That's worse."
Atlas offered him the seat near the fire. Cedric sat, hugging his knees.
"I want to be a knight too," Cedric said, not looking at him.
"You don't have to be," Atlas replied. "You can be better."
"I want to be what you are."
Atlas turned slightly, studying his brother's small hands. Too clean. Too soft.
"I'm not what you think."
"You're quiet and smart and fast. You don't miss."
"I miss all the time," Atlas said softly. "I just do it quietly."
Cedric frowned. "Then teach me before you go."
Atlas considered.
Then rose, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled down a thin, worn scroll.
The first combat rhythm chart Liora had ever given him.
He handed it over.
"Memorize the cadence," he said. "Learn to breathe between beats, not over them."
Cedric opened the scroll, frowning. "This is just music."
Atlas knelt. "Sword rhythm *is* music. Once you hear it, your feet know where to go."
Cedric blinked.
Then nodded.
---
Outside, the escort waited—three riders in black leathers bearing House Westenra's fading crest. A carriage with hard suspension and no glass, drawn by mountain stallions.
Dame Liora stood beside it, arms folded.
"You're late," she said.
"I was training."
"Lie better."
Atlas stepped up into the carriage. Liora followed, sitting opposite him.
The door shut with a solid clack. The driver gave a sharp whistle.
And the manor began to shrink behind them.
---
They traveled south through the **Kareth Hills**, a region of thick pine ridges and soft-bellied valleys lined with water-routes and old footpaths. The road to **First Hall** took two days by horse. Three with a carriage. It wound between border towns, abandoned mining posts, and moss-covered shrines no longer tended.
Atlas watched it all pass through a thin slit in the canvas.
"They'll test your loyalty first," Liora said, breaking silence. "Not your sword."
"I don't have loyalty to spare."
"You'll need to fake it."
He turned to her.
"You think they'll fear me?"
"No," she said. "They'll study you. That's worse."
Atlas leaned back.
The movement of the carriage rocked slightly. He let his head rest against the wooden frame.
"I fought it again last night."
Liora turned her eye toward him. "The shadow?"
He nodded.
"Did it change?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"It moved like her."
Liora didn't ask who.
She didn't need to.
"And did you win?"
"No."
"Then don't speak to me of sword names until you do."
---
The first night on the road, they camped beneath the **Shiverpine Cross**, an ancient wooden bridge that spanned a gorge filled with black mist.
Atlas volunteered to take first watch.
He didn't tell them why.
He needed space.
Time.
The fire crackled quietly as the others slept. The horses shifted now and then, snorting at night sounds. The stars above were thin and sharp.
Atlas drew his blade.
Stood.
And closed his eyes.
---
The white realm opened instantly.
No delay.
No slow fade.
He stood on smooth white nothing, barefoot. The air here was neither warm nor cold. The silence rang like a bell.
The **Second Fang's shadow** was already waiting.
It had changed again.
Now it looked more like him. Taller. Stance refined.
Its blade hung low in a mirrored version of his new distance-ready guard.
The fight began without a signal.
He stepped in.
The shadow stepped back.
It drew a perfect half-moon arc across the air—testing range. Atlas ducked it and countered with a soft angle cut designed to feint high but land low.
The shadow didn't fall for it.
It *retreated again*. Made space.
Atlas followed.
Mistake.
The shadow circled, slashed from behind, and struck him across the back.
Pain.
Real pain.
He fell to one knee, gasping.
The white floor tasted like ash.
He looked up.
The shadow waited.
He stood again.
Reset.
They fought ten more times.
Each loss peeled something away from him.
Ego.
Assumption.
Pride.
By the twelfth loss, he stopped moving.
The shadow circled.
Atlas stood perfectly still.
He breathed once. Deep.
Let his shoulders relax.
Let his center drop.
And in his mind—
—he visualized the duel again.
Not from the shadow.
But from *her*.
He pictured Serenya standing there.
Not attacking.
Not stepping forward.
Just being.
Calm.
Present.
Watching.
And something shifted.
Atlas raised his blade—not to strike.
But to *exist*.
The Second Fang clicked into place.
A principle, not a move.
He didn't *cut* the shadow.
He let the shadow come.
And when it did, he moved only an inch—
—and its strike missed.
That was the point.
**Make the space yours. Let them enter. Then take it away.**
His blade moved second.
But it landed first.
The shadow fell.
And when it did, the floor cracked.
Just a hairline fracture.
But there.
Atlas stared at it.
Then awoke.
---
He gasped, back in his body.
The fire had burned lower.
His blade was still in hand.
His fingers shook slightly.
He whispered the name aloud for the first time.
"**Veil Fang.**"
The Second Fang.
Not fast.
Not loud.
Just perfectly placed.
---
They reached **First Hall** by noon the next day.
The port town stretched along the riverbank like a merchant's belt—narrow, busy, looped with barges and flags from every western noble house. Soldiers watched from bridges. Mages in gray walked with hoods up.
Tension ran thick here.
Atlas felt it.
Change was coming.
And not everyone would survive .