The night was dark, but the candles in the training yard had been out for hours. Ethan trained alone, as every night.
The iron sword weighed on his arms. His strokes were slow, clumsy, but no longer as clumsy as on the first day. Repetition, stubbornness, lack of alternatives – all contributed to a slow, almost invisible improvement.
"Again," he murmured to himself.
Vertical cut. Thrust. Guard. Vertical cut. Thrust. Guard.
Sweat ran down his forehead. His arm burned. The sword trembled.
"Again."
He stopped. The candle on the windowsill flickered.
Ethan looked at it. There was no wind. The flame moved anyway – a slight tremor, from side to side, as if searching for something.
"What…" he began.
The flame went out.
Ethan stood still. His hand, extended without thinking, trembled. He had spoken no words. Made no gestures. He had only looked.
*Was it me?*, he thought. *Or was it the wind?*
There was no wind.
He lit the candle again – with the lighter, this time. The flame shone, steady, indifferent.
Ethan stepped back. His heart beat fast.
'If I can use magic…' No, he could not. Chosen ones cannot use mana. It is impossible. It is forbidden. It is death.
'But if I can…'
He sheathed his sword. He put out the candles one by one with his fingers, so as not to try again.
In the room, the other boys slept. Ethan lay down, his eyes open in the dark.
His hand still trembled.