They ran northbound, away from the gates and toward a clearing above the waterfall, boots thudding against packed earth and scattered stone.
The road narrowed quickly, giving way to a winding forest path where early spring clung stubbornly to the land. Meltwater trickled through shallow grooves, and the air carried the damp, clean scent of thawing soil and pine sap. Branches swayed overhead, their buds only just beginning to swell, and the ground was soft enough to punish careless steps.
Talmir ran just behind them.
Close enough that none of them could forget he was there.
"Keep the pace," he called out evenly. "Don't shorten your stride."
They ran in a loose line, stretched out by differences in pace and endurance. There was no rhythm to it, no attempt at unity—only forward momentum.
Ralph was at the rear.
He was struggling.
His face had gone red within minutes, sweat pouring down his temples and soaking into his collar. Each breath came in loud, ragged pulls that scraped his throat raw. His shoulders sagged under the weight of the sand sack, legs burning as he forced one foot ahead of the other.
"Bloody… damn… sack…" he muttered between gasps.
More than once, a curse escaped him—aimed at the road, the forest, Talmir, and especially the smug figures ahead. But for all his misery, he didn't slow down.
Not even a little.
His jaw was clenched tight, eyes locked forward.
If he had to collapse, he would collapse running.
There was no way he was giving Teclos the satisfaction of seeing him quit.
Ahead of him ran Gillard.
At a glance, he looked composed. His expression was calm, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes focused on the path ahead. He didn't curse or complain.
But the illusion broke the moment one looked closer.
His breathing was heavy and uneven, chest rising and falling in sharp pulls that fought for air. Sweat poured off him in sheets, darkening his clothes and dripping from his chin. His pace had slowed slightly—just enough to conserve what little he could.
The sack dug into his shoulders with every step.
He endured it silently.
A few strides ahead of Gillard was Teclos.
He was sweating now too, dark strands of hair clinging to his forehead as his breath grew harsher. His legs burned, muscles screaming in protest as he pushed harder, trying—futilely—to close the distance ahead of him.
"Damn it…" he growled under his breath.
His eyes were fixed on Tolk's back.
Just a little closer.
Just once.
But no matter how much he strained, the gap refused to shrink.
At the front ran Tolk.
And he looked infuriatingly comfortable.
His pace was steady, almost relaxed, arms swinging loosely at his sides. His breathing remained even, his posture upright. Not a single bead of sweat marred his forehead yet.
He glanced back over his shoulder with a wide grin.
"Just a few more steps and you've got me!" he called cheerfully.
Teclos snarled in response.
Tolk laughed.
Another glance back.
"Already out of stamina?"
Teclos bit back a curse and forced his legs to keep moving.
Talmir, meanwhile, watched it all.
He simply stayed behind them, a heavy presence and unyielding steps, daring anyone to stop.
Time stretched. Muscles screamed. Breath burned.
Then, at last, the forest opened slightly.
They emerged onto a raised ledge overlooking the river, water rushing far below as sunlight filtered through thinning branches. The ground leveled out, wide enough for erratic movement, and scarred by old training marks worn into the earth.
Talmir finally slowed down.
The others followed—some stumbling, some steady, all breathing hard.
They had arrived.
The warm-up was over.
The real training was about to begin.
They dropped the sand sacks where they stood.
Ralph didn't even bother staying upright—he staggered two steps forward and collapsed flat onto his back, chest heaving violently as he dragged air into his lungs. His face was flushed deep red, sweat soaking through his clothes as if he'd been dunked in the river.
Gillard lowered himself more carefully, sitting on his sack with his elbows resting on his knees. His expression was unreadable, calm on the surface, though the steady rise and fall of his chest betrayed how hard the run had been.
Teclos let his sack fall and immediately cursed under his breath, bending forward with his hands on his knees.
"Damn it…"
Tolk, meanwhile, laughed openly.
"Careful there," he said, clapping Teclos on the shoulder. "Wouldn't want you to pass out before we even start."
Teclos shot him a glare sharp enough to cut.
Before he could respond—
"Silence."
Talmir's voice cracked through the clearing like a snapped whip.
Teclos and Tolk snapped to attention instantly, backs straight, eyes forward.
A heartbeat later, Gillard pushed himself up and followed suit, mirroring their posture as best he could.
Ralph remained on the ground.
"W-wait…" he panted, lifting one hand weakly. "Just… give me a—"
Talmir stepped forward, grabbed Ralph by the front of his tunic, and hauled him upright in one smooth, brutal motion. Before Ralph could protest further, Talmir deposited him beside the others and stepped back.
"There is no pause," Talmir said flatly. "And if I hear another complaint, I'll introduce you to punishment drills you'll remember for the rest of your life."
Ralph swallowed hard and stayed silent.
Grumbling under his breath, he straightened and forced himself to stand at attention, shoulders trembling, lungs still burning.
Talmir paced in front of them, assessing each one.
"Today," he began, "we will train the body. The only rule I'll set is that the usage of mana is not allowed."
He gestured toward the open ground.
"You'll start with sprints. Then bodyweight exercises. Push-ups. Squats. Lunges. Planks. Bear crawls. Mountain climbs. Burpees until your arms and legs stop listening to you."
Ralph's face drained of color.
He stared at Talmir as if the man had just announced a death sentence.
'They're insane,' he thought.
Beside him, Gillard felt much the same—but unlike Ralph, he kept his expression carefully neutral, eyes forward, jaw set.
Talmir wasn't finished.
"You'll move from one set to the next with no more than a minute of pause. If someone collapses, they get extra sets as punishment."
Tolk's grin widened.
Teclos's eyes lit up with a spark.
Competition flared between them instantly—silent and sharp.
Gillard noticed it from the start.
He glanced sideways at Ralph, who met his look with a tired, knowing expression.
It was becoming clear now.
Whether it had been Talmir or Kosak who planned it didn't matter—but Tolk was here for a reason. A living, breathing provocation for Teclos. A moving goalpost meant to drag him forward by his sheer stubbornness and pride.
And it was working.
"Positions," Talmir ordered.
They dropped to the ground.
The first set began.
And then another.
And another.
Time blurred.
Their arms shook, legs burned, and lungs almost gave out. Sweat soaked into the dirt beneath them as minutes stretched into hours. The brief rests between sets felt like cruel jokes—just long enough to barely pick themselves back up.
Two hours passed like that.
A slow, grinding torture of will.
By the end of it, none of them were thinking about pride, or competition, or even victory anymore.
They were thinking only about enduring this torture.
When it was finally over, Talmir raised his hand.
"Enough."
The word might as well have been a release spell.
Almost everyone collapsed where they stood.
Ralph dropped first, knees buckling as he slumped onto the ground, arms splayed out, chest rising and falling like a bellows on the verge of tearing itself apart.
Gillard followed him a second later, lowering himself to one knee before giving up and falling down on his ass heavily, head bowed in defeat.
Teclos tried to stay up, but his legs quit on him. He caught himself with his hands, then rolled onto his back, staring up at the canopy as his vision swam.
Only Tolk remained standing.
Barely.
He was bent forward with both hands braced on his knees, shoulders rising sharply with each breath. Sweat finally streamed down his face in earnest, dripping from his chin onto the dirt below.
Talmir designed a workout that would work on everyone.
He moved through them one by one, singling each out—correcting posture, barking commands, forcing extra repetitions where form had slipped. Even Tolk wasn't spared; Talmir stopped in front of him, pointed at the ground, and made him drop for another punishing set that wiped the grin clean off his face.
Only when he was satisfied did Talmir step back.
"Ten minutes," he said. "Rest."
A generous mercy… for his standard.
Teclos lay there, chest heaving, limbs trembling, and took note of it. Ten minutes… usually he'd be lucky to get five.
Half the rest for the same work.
'I guess it's because it's their first time?' Teclos thought.
As they struggled to recover, hurried footsteps approached from the trail.
Kosak came jogging into the clearing, a sand sack slung across his back.
He wasn't even winded.
"Morning," he said casually, straightening up as if he hadn't just run the entire way.
Talmir glanced at him flatly.
"You're late again."
Kosak shrugged. "Sorry. The kid didn't want to go to the market with her mother. Had to handle it, father style."
Tolk snorted. "You mean you promised her something if she behaved?"
Kosak grinned. "Hey. It is what it is."
A smirk escaped Talmir.
"You spoil her too much."
Once the ten minutes were up, Talmir clapped his hands sharply.
"On your feet."
Groans followed, but everyone obeyed.
"The next part is sparring," he said. "You'll rotate partners after each bout. For now, it'll be you four—Tolk, Gillard, Teclos, Ralph."
He paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"Later, Kosak and I will join in."
Ralph's stomach sank. 'More?! Holy hell, those guys are maniacs!'
"And," Talmir continued, a hint of interest creeping into his voice, "I've been thinking of something new."
The group stilled.
"Three versus one," he said. "Evade, reposition, survive. Training fit for being outnumbered."
Teclos felt a spark of excitement—and dread.
"That comes later," Talmir added. "For now, standard one-on-one. You'll fight until each of you has faced everyone else at least once."
He gestured toward the cleared ground.
"Form up."
After the rest period ended, Talmir's gaze settled on Gillard and Ralph.
"You two first," he said, jerking his chin toward the clearing. "Let's see what you've got."
Both straightened immediately.
Talmir stepped between them, holding out two wooden practice swords. They were balanced well, smooth, the edges dulled but the weight similar to real swords.
"Again, no mana," Talmir said evenly as he handed them over. "No eye gouging. No strikes below the belt. If your opponent surrenders, you stop immediately. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Gillard replied without hesitation.
"Got it," Ralph said, rolling his shoulders as he took his sword.
They moved apart, facing each other across the trampled earth.
Ralph was the agile fighter type.
He bounced lightly on his feet, grip loose, sword held at an angle that shifted every few seconds as if he couldn't quite decide how he wanted to start.
Gillard, by contrast, settled into a clean, orthodox stance—knees bent, blade centered, tip steady, his breathing already slow and controlled.
Talmir raised his hand.
"Begin."
Ralph moved first.
He came in fast, not with a committed strike but a probing slash meant to test Gillard's reactions.
Gillard stepped back half a pace, blade snapping up to intercept with a clean parry that redirected the force away from his body.
Ralph grinned and pressed in, chaining his attacks together—an angled cut from the right, a quick feint to the shoulder, then a sudden kick aimed at Gillard's thigh.
Gillard caught the kick on his shin and shifted his weight, sword sliding into position to punish the opening. Ralph twisted away just in time, the wooden blade whistling past his ribs.
They circled.
Gillard advanced carefully, cutting off angles, sword always between himself and Ralph. His strikes were economical—straight thrusts, tight arcs, nothing wasted. Each one forced Ralph to move, to react, to stay light.
Ralph answered with creativity.
He ducked low under a swing and rolled past Gillard's flank, coming up with a backhand slash that nearly caught Gillard's shoulder. When Gillard blocked, Ralph stepped in close, shoulder-checking him before hopping back out of range.
"Quit dancing around like a girl…" Gillard muttered under his breath.
Ralph shot back. "Says the stationary rock with no finesse."
Ralph launched another attack—high slash, low kick, then a sudden spin that turned into a sweeping cut.
Gillard absorbed it all with disciplined defense, blade moving in precise lines, feet repositioning just enough to keep balance without overcommitting.
The rhythm shifted.
Gillard began to push forward, using his steadiness to force Ralph into narrower space. A well-timed parry opened Ralph's guard for a heartbeat, and Gillard capitalized, stepping in with a controlled strike aimed at the chest.
Ralph barely twisted aside, the sword scraping across his leather armor. He countered with a knee that Gillard blocked with his thigh, the impact echoing dully through the clearing.
They broke apart again, both breathing heavily, both from the training from before and from the strain now.
Ralph lunged once more, this time committing fully—slash, kick, slash in quick succession. Gillard met him head-on, wood cracking sharply as their blades locked for a moment.
Gillard tried to muscle through.
Ralph shifted, turned his wrist, and slipped free.
Both stepped back at the same time.
For a brief moment, they stood there, evenly matched—two different styles colliding without either giving ground.
Talmir watched closely, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"They need work," he said finally. "But not bad."
'Yeah… they are pretty high level,' Teclos thought, surprised.
The bout wasn't over yet.