The next morning, Mau was given something new.
"Surprise," Tay Eming said, tossing her a small pouch.
Inside: a simple dagger, wooden hilt, razor-sharp edge.
"Practice," he said simply. "Feel it. Don't think. Let it tell you where to move."
Mau tilted her head. "The last time I let something 'tell me where to move,' I ended up in a swamp with three leeches and one angry goat."
Tay Eming laughed, slapping her lightly on the shoulder. "Then perhaps you were listening to the wrong thing."
She rolled her eyes, then squared her shoulders. The dagger felt light, almost too familiar in her hands. She twirled it experimentally, each movement smooth and confident, as though the weight had been a part of her since birth.
The forest became her arena. Every branch, shadow, and rock became part of the lesson. Tay Eming moved unpredictably, striking, blocking, circling. Mau's body responded instinctively, calculating angles, speed, and distance before she had a conscious thought.
At one point, he lunged, and she sidestepped so precisely it almost felt unnatural.
"Stop," he said, dropping into a crouch, hands on his knees. "Do you even know what you just did?"
"I… don't think so," she said, catching her breath. "It felt like… instinct."
Tay Eming studied her, eyes narrowing. "Not instinct. Memory."
Mau frowned. "Memory?"
"Yes." His voice dropped slightly. "Something in you… was trained once. Precisely. Brutally. Beautifully. And whoever did it… did not fail."
Mau's pulse quickened. That flicker again—recognition. Familiarity with discipline she couldn't name.
The forest seemed to lean closer as if listening.
"You know," she said softly, almost to herself, "I feel like I'm supposed to remember something."
Tay Eming's smile was faint, almost sorrowful. "You are. And you will. In time."
A branch snapped behind them. Mau spun instantly, dagger raised, calm as if the sound had been expected.
Tay Eming stopped laughing. "Good reflexes. Too good for someone who 'doesn't remember.'"
Mau tilted her head, smirking slightly. "Maybe I've always been this… awkwardly efficient."
"Awkwardly efficient," he repeated, chuckling. "I'll have to write that in your forest CV."
The sun dipped below the Sierra horizon. Shadows lengthened. Mau sat cross-legged, dagger beside her, eyes bright with unshed questions.
She didn't know yet where she truly belonged.
But something beneath the surface whispered she had been prepared for a life she had not chosen—and that life was waiting.
And somewhere far away, in a city of glass towers, someone had planned that everything would be broken to get her there.
Tay Eming watched the forest darken, quiet as always.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, "we find out what else you can do."
Mau nodded. The red mark beneath her ear tingled faintly.
Something was calling her. Something she didn't yet understand.