The fire in Daimon's forge had long since burned down to coals, but the heat still clung to the ground, sunk deep into stone and marrow. Caliste stood in its glow, silent and unmoving, the wind stirring his cloak as he stared across the ravaged training field.
This place had tested him in ways no battlefield ever had. Daimon's trials were not built to teach—they were built to expose. And in three harrowing days, everything soft had been burned away.
There was no illusion left. No hesitation. No past life to lean on.
Only will, sharpened to a point.
Daimon approached, carrying a leather-wrapped bundle in one hand and a cup of bitter root-brew in the other. He offered neither.
"I should be surprised," he said. "But I'm not."
Caliste didn't look at him. "You knew what I was the moment I walked in."
"I suspected," Daimon corrected. "But now I know. You weren't shaped by training. You were remembering."
Caliste said nothing.
The silence stretched long.
