The first rays of dawn were not gentle. They were spears of pale gold, piercing the canopy and striking Arrion's face where he still knelt, propped against the roots of the shattered oak. He had not moved, the deep, restorative stillness gifted by the Verdant King holding him in a trance more than sleep. As the light touched his eyelids, the trance broke.
Agony returned, a dull, all-encompassing throb. He was a tapestry of pain: the blossoming bruises from the arrows, the fiery grind of his mended ribs, the deep ache in every muscle. With a groan that was half-sigh, half-whimper, he forced himself to move. His fingers closed around the hilt of *Nightshade*, using it as a crutch to lever his immense, broken frame upright. The walk back to Hearthstone was a blur of torment. Each step was a negotiation with his body. The black armor felt like a prison of lead. The forest, once a sanctuary, was a gauntlet of roots that seemed to trip him, of slopes that felt like mountains.
He did not remember passing the palisade. He did not remember crossing the village square. The first thing he truly knew was the sight of his uncle's longhouse door, solid and real, swimming in his vision. His legs gave out. He did not fall, but sank, his back against the sun-warmed timber of the doorstep, Nightshade clattering beside him. The world narrowed to a pinprick of light, then winked out.
***
He was elsewhere.
A plain of cracked, black obsidian stretched under a sky torn by silent, perpetual lightning. No clouds, only the violet-white scars of energy ripping the heavens apart again and again. In the center of this desolation stood a figure.
He was a giant, even to Arrion. Over eight feet tall, his form was wrought not of flesh, but of contained, coruscating energy. Blue-white lightning danced across the semblance of plate armor, his hair a wild corona of static. His eyes were pools of pure, blinding voltage. And he spoke, his voice the crash of thunder given words, speaking in the fluid, angular vowels of the Old Tongue.
Þu birst þæt sweord. Þu birst þæt blōd. Swā þēah þū cnēowlǣst on lāme manna.
"You carry the blade. You bear the blood. Yet you kneel in the mud of mortals."
The lightning-giant paced, each step leaving a sizzling footprint on the glassy ground. "A knight is not a title given. It is a self forged in purpose and power. You have fought. You have survived. This is the clay. Now, you must be the fire."
He stopped, and a bolt of lightning from the sky lashed down, forming into a shimmering longsword in his hand. "The first crucible: Dominion Over Self. Your pain is an anchor. Your fear is a chain. You must not ignore them. You must command them. Make the agony a sharpening stone. Make the fear a watchful hound. This is the Adept's truth."
The scene shifted. Arrion stood on a crumbling bridge over a chasm of howling winds. The lightning-giant stood opposite, his sword now wreathed in flame. "The second crucible: Imbuement of Will. Your strength is not in muscle, but in intent. You must pour your will into your blade, into your breath, into your step. Feel the world's energy—not as the forest king does, as a part of it—but as a rider upon it. Bend it. Shape it to a cutting edge, to a shield of air. This is the Vindicator's art."
The bridge vanished. Arrion stood in a vast, empty hall of stone. The giant now glowed with a steady, inner radiance, his form less distinct, more like a man-shaped dawn. "The third crucible: The Unbreaking Vow. Power without purpose is a wildfire. You must choose your law. What is your covenant? Is it vengeance?" The word echoed with a sound of shattering glass. "It is too small. It will consume you. Is it protection?" The word rang like a great bell. "Better. But protection is a reaction. You must vow to become a cause. A bastion against a specific darkness. Your father's vow was to guard the thresholds. What is yours? Until you speak it, you are merely a man with a powerful sword."
The lightning-giant raised his blazing sword, pointing it not at Arrion, but at the storm-racked sky. "The path is open, son of Kaelen. The ranks are not granted. They are claimed. Forge yourself. Or be content to die a mortal hero in the dirt."
The world of lightning and stone fractured—
—and resolved into the worried, furrowed face of Borryn. His uncle was kneeling before him, hands on Arrion's armored shoulders, shaking him gently. Early morning sunlight framed his head.
"Arrion! By all the gods, lad, speak to me!"
Arrion blinked, his grey eyes focusing slowly. The vision of the lightning giant was seared into his mind, the Old Tongue echoing like distant thunder. He tasted ozone on his tongue. He looked down at his hands, half-expecting to see sparks dancing between his fingers.
He met his uncle's eyes, his voice a dry rasp from a parched and dreaming throat.
"I need… water," he croaked. "And a whetstone."