As the other Aspirants picked up their training weapons and began practicing their forms under Wroth’s watchful eye, Fawkes led Hunter to the far side of the Training Grounds.

“That went well,” Hunter said once they were out of earshot.

“It did,” Fawkes nodded. “Unaided, I expect it to be weeks before any of the other three even get a feel for what their Essence feels like. It’s like having to learn to use a whole different kind of sense, I reckon.”

“Wait – so I’m actually good at something?” Hunter asked, only half-feigning surprise.

She eyed him, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t sell yourself short, lad. You’re plenty good at plenty of things.”

“It sure doesn’t feel like it these past two weeks or so,” he shrugged.

“That’s on me. I shouldn’t have left you with Wroth. In retrospect, maybe this whole Aspirant thing wasn’t as good an idea as I’d initially thought,” she admitted.

“Oh, yeah?” Hunter snarked, his voice carrying more vinegar than he’d intended. “What gave you that thought?”

Fawkes didn’t respond, but her lips pressed into a thin, white line.

“I’m sorry,” Hunter sighed, the pent-up frustration of the last few days slipping through. “Didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just… I’ve come dead last at everything Wroth has made us do. And don’t even get me started on the whole hand thing.”

Fawkes put a hand on his shoulder, searched for his eyes.

“This is on me. I didn’t think this through. I should have known the path of the White Cloud – or the pale echo that Wroth teaches, at least – would not suit you. As someone recently put it, it’s like teaching a bird to climb a tree.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s ill-fitting,” Fawkes said with a mirthless smirk. “And stupid besides. There’s better ways for a bird to get to the top.”

Hunter wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that, but, to mix metaphors, he definitely felt like a fish out of water. He hadn’t signed up to train for ultramarathons while swinging a seven-and-a-half-foot polearm around like some demented barbarian version of David Goggins.

“So what do we do, then?”

“Anything you want.” Fawkes said, and there was a softness in her voice Hunter had scarcely heard before. “We can always just leave. See where the roads take us.”

Hunter gave it some thought, his gaze drifting toward the other side of the Training Grounds, where the Aspirants moved in unison, their weapons slicing through the air as Elder Wroth barked commands and adjusted their stances. They were nothing like him—different goals, different motivations, different challenges to face. He didn’t have any skin in this Aspirant game, not like they did.

Still… there was something about it that tugged at him.

Something unfinished.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to stick around,” Hunter began, cautious. “See this thing through. But... I’d rather have you calling the shots on the training. Not Wroth.”

“The man’s a boor,” she agreed, and she couldn’t suppress a faint smile. “And nowhere near as great a warrior as he likes to boast to anyone who’ll listen.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Hunter chuckled.

“He’s not bad, mind you. He's just a medium sized fish in a tiny little pond, with nary the wisdom to realize it.”

“So what do we do, then?” Hunter echoed his earlier question.

“I suppose we can stick around for a while, if you don’t mind it,” Fawkes said, her lips curling into a sly, almost mischievous smile. “Might be worth it just to knock Wroth down a peg or two. And maybe put that smug alderman’s pup, Yuma, in his place while we’re at it. What do you say?”

That… didn’t sound half bad, he had to admit.

“As long as you’re here,” Hunter agreed. “And you’re the one running the training. I’m sick to my stomach of running laps.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Her smile widening into something almost wicked. “I have some ideas I believe you’ll find to your liking. But first, we have to do something about that hand of yours.”

Hunter glanced down at his mangled hand, the fingers twisted and knuckles out of place, bones clearly ruined beneath the surface. His Toughness Ability was doing its best to hold things together, but the dull ache and lingering numbness were constant reminders of the injury. It hadn’t healed right, and despite the magic at work, the discomfort never fully left him.

“Have you figured out anything yet?”

“I’m working on it,” she nodded. Her tone shifted, more serious now. “But all the elixirs in the world will do us little good if you don’t learn to properly cycle your Essence. Which, as it happens, brings us to the next step in your training.”

She reached into her left sleeve and pulled out what looked like a snowglobe.

“One of these days,” Hunter said, eyeing the object, “you’ll have to tell me how you do this.”

“I will,” she agreed with a small smile. “But not yet. For now, focus on this.”

She handed him the snowglobe, and he turned it over in his hands, examining it. The glass was cool to the touch, and the more he stared, the more it seemed to pulse faintly with an energy he could almost feel.

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“This is a cycling globe,” she explained. “Equal parts children’s toy and teaching instrument. It was traditionally used to teach áeld children how to cycle.”

“Children?” Hunter asked, mock-complaining. “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Don’t start,” she shot back. “To the áeld, Essence manipulation comes as easily as breathing. Most humes have barely enough to even use a toy like this.”

“And I do?”

“You,” she fixed him with a pointed look, “are not like most humes.”

She was right, of course. Even his Race wasn’t technically Human – it was Transient (Human). The specifics were still a bit fuzzy to him, but one thing was clear: the average Joe of this world probably couldn’t do what he could. Whatever made him Transient set him apart in ways that were becoming more obvious with every passing day.

“Alright, alright, I get it.” He raised the snowglobe to his eyes and peered into its depths. “So, what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Sit down,” she gestured. “What you’re supposed to do is meditate as you did before, but this time holding the globe in your hands. I’ll guide you through it.”

Hunter settled into a meditation pose, wrapped his hands around the glass snowglobe, and closed his eyes.

“Start by regulating your breath,” Fawkes said in the softest, most calming tone she could muster. “Breathe in through your nose. Pay attention to how the air flows through you, how it feels your lungs and makes your chest raise.”

Hunter did as she directed, lowering himself to the ground and crossing his legs. He took a slow, deliberate breath, relishing the way the cool air chilled him from his sinuses all the way down to his lungs.

“Now breathe out. Let the air escape you slowly, like you're releasing every bit of tension with it. Feel your body relax as the air leaves. Focus on nothing but the rhythm of your breath and the globe in your hands.”

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

“Good. Now feel the Essence flowing through your Channels. Picture it as clearly as you can. It’s not just something inside you – it is part of you. Become its vessel, the thing that gives it shape and purpose. Let it move through you like blood in your veins.”

Hunter focused inward, breathing deeply as he visualized the Essence flowing through him. It moved like a cool, fluid current, winding through invisible Channels beneath his skin. It reminded him of mist, but different, otherworldly. He’d seen that kind of mist before. Was it in the Vale of Ghosts?

With each breath, he felt it pulse and shift, – soft at first, then gradually stronger, like water finding its path through stone. At the same time, he felt the snowglobe subtly vibrate under his fingertips, a feeling so light he wondered whether it was just his imagination. The slight tremor matched the rhythm of his Essence, almost as if the globe was responding to the flow within him.

“Nice,” Fawkes encouraged, her voice steady. “Keep that up. Now, imagine the globe is part of your Channels. Let your Essence flow through it, as if it’s an extension of you – like a stream turning a watermill. Feel the energy pass through it, steady and smooth.”

At first, Hunter did just as Fawkes instructed. He visualized the Essence flowing from his body into the globe, seamlessly connecting with the small object in his hands. For a moment, the flow was smooth. Indeed, it felt like a stream gently turning the wheel of a watermill. The globe responded with a faint hum that aligned with his own rhythm.

But then, as the Essence passed through his body, it hit the familiar snag – the blockage in his injured hand. The flow twisted, distorted by the misaligned Channels, and the once-steady current faltered. Hunter’s concentration slipped, the flow of his Essence stuttered and sputtered, and the globe stopped humming.

“Shit!” he growled, frustration getting the better of him.

He opened his eyes and looked at Fawkes, exasperated.

“I’m sorry. It’s this damn hand. It throws the flow off.”

Fawkes was watching him closely, studying him, her expression inscrutable.

“What?” he asked, puzzled.

“Hunter,” she said, her tone unusually serious. “Are you absolutely sure you’ve never cycled before?”

“Ugh… yes? Not as far as I know.”

“Interesting.”

“It is?”

“Yes. You did well,” she reassured him. “Now, try again. Don’t push yourself too hard. For now, all you need to do is get familiar with using the globe. Can you manage that?”

Hunter scratched the back of his neck, glancing down at the snow globe.

“Yeah, sure... I mean, how hard can it be to bond with a magical snowglobe,” he muttered, giving an awkward chuckle. “Worst case, it explodes, right?”

“If you can make this thing explode, lad,” Fawkes raised an eyebrow, “then maybe you should be the one teaching me. Don’t worry. Do your part, I’ll do mine, and we’ll get that hand fixed in no time.”

They spent the rest of the morning in quiet focus, Hunter working on cycling his Essence through the snow globe while Fawkes sat nearby, poring over an old journal and scribbling notes in a notebook she’d – once again – pulled out of nowhere. The soft scratching of her pen was the only real noise around them, though Hunter was vaguely aware of the distant clang of weapons from the other side of the Training Grounds, and later on the sounds of heavy footsteps and labored breathing broke through as Wroth had the other Aspirants running laps.

He didn’t mind one bit that he was missing out on training with the others. In fact, he preferred it – sitting there, doing something he’d actually proven to be decent at, with Fawkes by his side. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t exchanged a word in the last two hours. Just being near her, in that quiet companionship, made him feel better.

“Damn you, you sly old dog,” she swore at some point, her frustration yanking Hunter out of his focus.

“What’s up?” he asked, glancing over.

“A man that’s been dead for fifty years just reached beyond the grave to tell me to eat his scrotum, that’s what’s up.”

Hunter blinked.

“Uh… what?”

“I thought I’d cracked the code Ghorval used in his logbook," Fawkes explained, her expression sour. "Turns out, it was just a trap he set for anyone trying to decrypt it. Instead of useful information, I get a half-century-old insult. He clearly didn’t want aspiring codebreakers sniffing around his secrets.”

“That…” Hunter struggled not to chuckle. “Come on, you have to admit that’s funny. This Ghorval sounds like a bucket of laughs.”

“A right proper ass is what he was,” Fawkes scoffed, shoving her pen and notebook back into wherever she always seemed to pull them from. “If he’d spent more time teaching the ways of the Lodge to his apprentice and less time crafting coded insults…” She let the sentence hang, unfinished. “And laugh all you want, but remember – it’s your hand that’s not getting fixed, not mine. The sooner we get to those elixirs, the sooner you can get back to proper training.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued.

“And what exactly do you have in store for training? Are we still going to be running laps and swinging glaives around like Wroth's drill sessions?"

Fawkes gave him a sidelong glance, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh, there’ll be some running. It’s good for building up your endurance, your foundation. But if you’re worried I’ll turn into Wroth and have you doing laps until you drop, you can relax. I’ve got something a bit more... creative in mind.”

“Will there be any sparring?”

“Most definitely.”

“Good,” Hunter said, grinning. “I’ve got a few new tricks I’m itching to try on that asshat Yuma. Show him how we do things back on Earth.”

“Now that,” Fawkes raised an eyebrow, “is something I’d pay good money to see.”

She stared at him, her eyes narrowing with an expectant glint. After a moment of silence , she leaned in slightly, eyebrow arched.

“Want to elaborate on that, or are you just going to leave me hanging?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been digging into some old martial arts and arms manuals from my side of things. Figured it was time to learn some new techniques, understand my weapon better. Yuma won’t know what hit him.”

“I feel like I should remind you that training isn’t supposed to be about settling petty rivalries, but…” she paused, a slight smirk forming on her lips. “Well, I can still appreciate the idea. Just don’t let that be the only thing driving you.”

“What can I say?” he shrugged. “I guess I am who I am.”