While preparations went on in Ashbourne, with the lord commanders drilling their men into disciplined formations, the blacksmiths hammering day and night to forge as many Chronicle armour sets as their calloused hands could manage, and Sapphira steadily managing the affairs of the court with the poise of a queen, Asher had gone elsewhere.

Far from the bustle of the city, he journeyed deep into the Ash Mountain Range with Sirius at his side.

Now he stood in the heart of the wilderness, holding Ithamar in hand. All around him the jagged mountains rose like ancient titans, their peaks veiled in drifting clouds, their flanks clothed in sprawling forests that whispered with the wind. In that lonely expanse, Asher stood bare-bodied beneath the glaring sun, muscles taut with strain, his chest rising and falling heavily as he swung the massive blade once more.

'It's not working.' His voice carried a hollow weight of regret.

It had been days since he had come here, days of relentless practice, yet no progress revealed itself, none, not even the faintest flicker of growth, not even a snail's crawl forward.

The gleam of the noonday sun glared against the broad blade of the six-foot longsword, scattering light across its edges like molten fire. Lowering it slowly, he let the tip fall until it kissed the earth, motionless.

He lifted his head, face tilted toward the blinding sky. For the first time in a long while, a heaviness gnawed at him. He felt adrift, unmoored, like a man staring at the horizon with no map to follow. All he had ever wanted was strength, recognition among the great, the chance to seize his mantle and lead his people to glory. Yet the thought crept in, cruel and unrelenting.

Was he just a bridge?

Was that all he was destined to be?

'I'll continue tomorrow,' he muttered at last. Driving Ithamar into the ground, he turned his back on it. The stony earth yielded before the sword's impossible sharpness as if it were wet clay, parting without resistance until the steel stood buried deep.

A short distance away, perched upon a weathered boulder, Sirius stirred. The great wolf's silver ears flicked sharply, attuned to something Asher had yet to notice. A low growl vibrated in his throat, warning of a presence drawing near.

And then, a voice rang out behind Asher.

"Are you done?"

The tone was calm yet commanding, deep and unshaken, the voice of a teacher who appeared at the very instant a pupil thought to abandon his lesson.

Asher turned, startled, his eyes darting over his shoulder. Standing there beside Ithamar was Zenas. The ancient figure's silhouette was unwavering, his gaze unreadable. Against his tall frame, the sword looked almost like an extension of him, its massive length just a head shorter than his own.

"Training just started and you already want to quit?" Zenas' tone was calm, but carried the weight of a teacher who tolerated no weakness. He drew his blade and pointed toward Ithamar. "Go to your wielder."

At once, Ithamar shuddered, tearing free of the earth. The massive sword shot across the air and landed in Asher's grip, the weight of it steadying him. His eyes locked on Zenas, who spun his own weapon through a few fluid arcs, warming his limbs as if limbering for a dance he had rehearsed a thousand times.

"You may be strong," Zenas said, advancing step by step, "but strength alone is a child's crutch. Your age binds you, you lack the scars of experience, the tempering of knowledge. That has held you back from what stands right before your eyes."

He closed the gap and brought his sword down in a clean vertical slash. Asher stepped boldly forward, answering with a diagonal strike meant to disrupt the flow of the blow. For an instant steel should have met steel, but lightning crackled across Zenas' frame, and in less than a blink he was gone. Asher stiffened as a blade came for his neck from behind.

Then his breath caught, because Zenas' tip wasn't on his skin at all, but resting against the broad side of Ithamar. He had reacted just in time.

A faint smile touched Zenas' lips.

Asher twisted, following through with a wide horizontal slash that carved the air itself. Zenas backflipped cleanly, landing light as falling snow. The flakes stirred from the force of Asher's blade, drifting through the air in slow spirals.

Then Zena's pupils flared. Asher was no longer in front of him, he was above. Muscles coiled, Asher drove Ithamar down with a thunderous sweep. The earth split open, gouging a deep scar several meters wide. Dust, rock, and roots burst upward in a roar.

But Zenas was already to the side, stepping past the destruction as if it were nothing more than rippling water.

Asher felt it coming a heartbeat too late, the thrust. It was simple, almost effortless, but his instincts screamed. His Force-forged skin braced, yet in that instant it felt as though the very fibers of his body were being unraveled.

The blade never touched him. Instead, Zenas shifted at the last instant, and the thrust drove forward into the open plain. A thunderous crack split the air as a ravine exploded outward, tearing straight through the forest beyond. Entire rows of trees shattered and collapsed like stalks of grass in a storm.

Asher stood frozen, eyes locked on the devastation. For him to cause that kind of ruin, he would need to pour Ithamar's power and his Inner World together into a single attack. Zenas had done it with one thrust.

"I was not gifted," Zenas said suddenly, lowering his sword and gripping the blade in one hand. His voice was steady, almost distant. "In my youth, they called me unworthy of steel. Even when my father wore a knight's mantle, I was denied. After his death, I found a wooden sword. I knew no forms, no flourishes. So I did what I could, I thrust, again and again. If I could not be talented, I would be relentless."

He glanced at Asher, then back at the broken forest.

"In time, I found I did not need another move. I fell in love with the thrust. With it, I felled foes by the dozens, then by the hundreds. I refined it beyond what the world thought possible. I bent Output itself until it became something more. And then… it began to change."

Asher frowned. "Change?"

Zenas' eyes sharpened. "Each thrust began to rewrite reality. I no longer forced my Force into beams or arcs, I only stabbed, and the world itself reshaped into ruin at the point of my sword."

For a moment, Asher felt as though none of this was real, that he had been trapped in some illusion with the real strength of the world hidden from him.

Zenas chuckled lightly, sensing the disbelief. "Do not be so quick to envy. The price is heavy. That single thrust drained more than what an Exalted swordsman could muster in their lifetime. To wield it is to bleed yourself dry." His gaze softened, but his tone was firm. "You are a King, Asher. A good one. But if you mean to end Saelix, good will not be enough. You will need more."

His tone deepened.

"You'll need an undefeatable warrior's strength. And funny enough, you were blessed with a talent that grants that. But I bet you don't even know what your talent can do."

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