We walked deeper into the jungle, the trees growing thicker around us and the canopy blocking out more and more of the morning light. The air was humid and heavy, and I could feel sweat already forming on the back of my neck.
Roran stopped in a small clearing that wasn't anything special—just a patch of dirt surrounded by trees with a few fallen logs scattered around. But it was flat and open, which made it perfect for training.
Roran turned to face me. His wooden sword rested across his shoulders and his eyes moved over me slow, like he was looking at a piece of meat he hadn't decided how to cook yet.
"So," he said. "You said you don't know how to make your own art, right?"
I nodded.
"Good. That's fine. You don't need to know yet." He pointed the sword at me. "But you will. I am going to train you every day. I am going to push you to your limits and then past them. I am going to make you feel like dying so many times that death stops being scary."
