A few days had passed since the merger. The morning at Elgenhurst Fortress was dark. The bedrock of the Caldra Mountains blocked the dawn light, leaving thin shadows clinging to the interior passages until well past sunrise. The stone floor dragged the night's cold with it, and bare feet meeting it would flinch at the chill. Ashna Vilhelm stood at the entrance to the training grounds. The training grounds were nothing more than an expanded cavern within the fortress. The ceiling stretched high, the walls still rough with raw stone, and a thin layer of sand covered the floor. Wooden targets lined the far end, and a row of weapon racks ran along the wall. The air carried the scent of iron and sand. Six or seven soldiers had already begun their drills. Some swung swords; others grappled. All of them were demons. Their ages and builds varied, but every face bore the same worn exhaustion, the same coiled tension. The faces of survivors, Ashna thought. No one looked at her. Or rather, they pretended not to. She felt the gazes all the same. Flickering, sidelong glances that measured her the way one might study a stain on a wall. Several of them were taking her measure. Zeerie stepped forward. Her purple hair was bound into a single knot, silver eyes sweeping calmly across the entire training ground. The small black horns at her temples caught the pale morning light. Her presence was the kind that shifted the air without a single word spoken. "[serious]Everyone, gather," At that brief command, all hands stilled. "[serious]From today, we have a new trainee. Ashna Vilhelm. A survivor of Tuulya—remember this: that distinction belongs to all of us in this fortress," Zeerie spoke quietly, meeting each soldier's eyes in turn. They looked at her now. This time without hiding, straight on. Not with kindness or hostility, but with the gaze of assessment. Ashna received all their eyes at once. She straightened her spine, drew in her chin. Part of her wanted to flee, but she held her ground through sheer stubbornness. Then a voice came from the wall. "[cold]...What is that," Grimhart Stark stood with his arms crossed. Silver hair fell to his shoulders, and eyes of two different colors—gold and violet—fixed on Ashna's chest. On the book she held tucked under her arm. *The Chronicle of the Star God*. "[cold]You brought a human book into this place," His voice was low, stripped of emotion. Not angry, exactly—more like confirming a fact. That made it heavier somehow. Ashna pulled the book closer to her chest. "[serious]...Is it wrong? To know about humans," "[cold]Your village was destroyed by those you came to know," Silence fell. The training ground froze solid. The sound of swords vanished. Footsteps ceased. Only the distant wind through the mountains remained. Ashna searched for words. She wanted to argue back. But her mouth wouldn't move. *Came to know.* The Holy Scepter Ministry had written books defining demons as "corruption," handed them to heroes, and ordered their extermination. Orvan Sturm had known about demons. He had known, and he had come anyway. When Ventzel spoke in the old master's voice—"Pass it on"—the flames were already consuming him. When her father called her name, his voice cut off mid-word. All of it— She couldn't deny it, Ashna thought. There was no lie in Grimhart's words. That was what hurt most. Grimhart said nothing more. He looked away, returning his gaze to his own sword. Only judgment remained hanging in the air. Several soldiers quietly averted their faces. Zeerie stepped in quietly. "[serious]Continue training," With just those words, the space came alive again. The soldiers scattered. Grimhart turned his back. Ashna remained standing, her fingertips tracing the texture of the book's cover. The memory of the village she couldn't burn, and Ventzel's final words, swayed quietly in her chest. --- Zeerie called her aside not long after. Not in a corner of the training ground, but in a small open space facing the outer cliff wall. Natural stones arranged themselves in a semicircle, and below the slope, the sharp ridgeline of the Caldra Mountains stretched on. The wind was strong, and the dry mountain air scraped at her throat. "[serious]I will teach you the fundamentals of demon magic," Zeerie settled onto a rock and spoke quietly. "[serious]Demon magic requires no incantation, no catalyst. It activates through emotion and will. Fundamentally different from human magic, which relies on words and tools. What exists within you becomes power directly," "[serious]...So if I'm angry, it just comes out," "[serious]It does. But if you cannot control it, it becomes the same flame that burns you," Ashna took a deep breath. She turned her consciousness inward, searching the depths of her belly. The power was there. She could feel it. Deep in her chest, along her ribs, something warm seeped through. It was definitely there. It had always been there—Ashna simply hadn't noticed. The moment she tried to draw it out, the village appeared. Flames. Stone walls. Smoke. The old master's back. Her father's voice cutting off mid-word. With a sound like *don*, a crack spiderwebbed across the cliff face. Stone shattered to sand and fell to the ground, a fist's width wide. "...!" Her hands trembled. Her strength drained away. The heat in her chest scattered into nothing. She tried again. This time more carefully. She tried to compress her emotions, to push the memory of flames away. Nothing came. It was like thrusting her hand into a bucket expecting water, only to find it empty. The power was there, but fear had frozen it solid, immobile. A third attempt. A fourth. She alternated between violent eruptions and complete failure. Another crack split the cliff face, and in the next moment, nothing emerged at all. Zeerie did not grow angry. She simply watched. "[gentle]Do not kill your emotions," Her voice was quiet. "[gentle]Anger and sorrow are your strength. But now you are drowning in them. You try to swim while drowning, so you sink," Ashna heard those words. They struck home. Something struck true, but she couldn't see the answer. How not to drown. It wasn't a question she could ask someone else—she knew that much herself. Frustration accumulated. Shame accumulated. The words Grimhart had spoken in the training ground, her power refusing to obey, all of it knotted together and lodged in her throat. "[serious]...Give me a moment," With that, she began descending the slope. Zeerie did not stop her. Ashna did not stop. Some corner of her mind knew that leaving the fortress without permission was forbidden, but she was moving faster than that knowledge now. --- The rocky mountainside was quiet. The slope of the Caldra Mountains was covered in stone and low brush. With each step, the dry texture of rock transmitted through her boot soles. The disguised entrance to Elgenhurst Fortress lay dozens of meters above. Even looking back, she saw only cliff face—that was the fortress's strength, Zeerie had said. Ashna sat down in the shadow of a large boulder. She hugged her knees and looked toward the distant mountains. The sky was high. Few clouds, and autumn light fell at an angle. Different from the red-earth sky she'd seen over Trammel Wasteland—this was dry and clear blue. *(I don't understand. But... how do I keep from drowning?)* The power exists. She can feel it. But every time she tries to use it, the village appears, and every time it either erupts violently or freezes solid. Control is a distant dream. She's not a trainee—she's just an unexploded bomb. A faint sound came. At first she thought it was wind. The dry sound of air passing between rocks. But it wasn't. The air stirred. Shadows of low brush trembled. Ashna's head snapped up. It came bounding down. It was massive. Nearly twice the size of a wolf, with two horns extending straight from its forehead—a horned wolf, Ashna recognized instantly. A large magical beast native to the Caldra Mountains, she'd heard from fortress soldiers, that charged without question at anything entering its territory. The horns rushed toward her. Ashna tried desperately to draw her power. She reached into her chest. The hot something was there, it was there, but—fear froze everything solid. Her fingertips shook. She was pressed against the rock. The sound of horns scraping stone filled her ear. The beast's breath, hot and foul-smelling, washed over her face. No good. It won't come. Fear has locked everything away— The sound of a blade. *Zashu.* The horned wolf's right foreleg tendon was severed, and its massive body collapsed. Still it thrashed, trying to rise. It pushed with its left leg, attempting to stand. A second slash. This time the left foreleg. With a heavy *don*, the horned wolf fell. It still groaned. Its head moved, trying to rake with its horns. A third slash. It was over. Ashna remained pressed against the rock, unable to move. Her breathing was ragged. Her knees were shaking. She had no strength. Grimhart Stark stood there, sheathing his sword in silence. His silver hair swayed in the mountain wind. His face held no emotion. The vertical scar on his forehead caught the light faintly, and black scale-like markings visible through gaps in his clothes caught her eye—the marks of the Rite of Rebirth, Ashna thought. The traces of the forbidden ritual that transformed humans into demons. "[cold]Do not leave the fortress without permission," His voice was emotionless. "[cold]Next time, handle it yourself. Don't wander alone when you can't even produce magic," He spoke and turned on his heel. It was in that moment. In the motion of Grimhart sheathing his sword. In the final angle of that movement. The way his right elbow drew slightly inward toward his torso. Ashna recognized it. There was a book in the human texts. A sword manual written by a human swordmaster from the Vernica Continent, one of thirty volumes in the fortress library. She'd read it many times. There were illustrations. A page showing the fundamentals of drawing and sheathing, with diagrams of that exact motion—the inward compression of the right elbow. A specific notation accompanied it: the Vernica Continental style of sheathing. A habit unique to human sword arts of the northern continent, a movement that had no place in demon combat technique. It was ingrained in Grimhart's body. Not something he did consciously. A movement carved into muscle by years of training. *(This person... learned the sword as a human.)* Before the Rite of Rebirth transformed him into a demon. In a different body, in a different world, he had gripped a sword. Ashna did not speak this realization aloud. Not because she feared what would happen if she asked—but because some instinct told her that now was not the moment for those words. She couldn't explain why. Only that speaking them felt like it would break something. Whether that something was Grimhart himself, or something between them, she couldn't say. "[gentle]...Thank you," That was all she said. Grimhart did not slow his pace. He continued walking away. But for just an instant. The muscles in his visible cheek twitched slightly. Not anger. Not rejection or acceptance. Something else—something wordless stirred within him. In the next moment, it was gone. Grimhart climbed the rocks and returned toward the fortress. Ashna sat beside the fallen horned wolf, breathing in the mountain air for a long time. --- Night came. The fortress interior was ruled by cavern cold, and small flames burned at intervals along the passages. Their light wavered, casting twisted shadows on the stone walls. Ashna sat in a corridor outside the medicinal herb storage, wrapping bandages around her hand. Her palm was scraped where it had pressed against rock. Not a serious injury, but uncomfortable to leave untended. Then voices drifted from