They continued on their journey, as the forest eventually gave way to mountains. These towering landmarks were unlike anything Nicos had ever seen before. He was used to bare plateaus and sloping hills, grey crags and hard rock. These mountains were lush and filled with life. The trees dotting their slopes cast the world in a vivid green. If not for the sharp slopes, the boy might not have noticed that they'd left the forest at all.

As they climbed, the green began to fade, though the trees remained. Leaves littered the ground, in a riot of yellows and browns. The bare limbs reminded Nicos of home, of the lonely evertree that had sat in his meadow since the day of his birth. Likewise, the weather changed. The forests had been damp with humidity, almost claustrophobic to breathe in, but as they rose, the air thinned and chilled. White frost clung to empty branches, tinting them with a bright sheen.

The grass became thinner, looser, more intermittent. They boy's feet found bare rock, slick with ice, again and again. He began to resort to the same casting technique that the Naru had taught him, forcing his Memory of solid ground into slippery stones.

It was upon these treacherous slopes that the boy began his training once more. The Keeper helped the boy expand his casting repertoire as they traveled. While the number of uses for the nearly-magical technique were many and varied, the boy's lessons focused on the most basic: manipulation of the elements.

Fire, water, wind and earth. The boy could not learn them all at once; he would have to narrow his focus. Fire was a given, as the boy had yet to even gain a novice's proficiency with his ashthrower. Water came second, the boy's choice. When given his options, he picked the one most likely to save his life. He'd experienced dry, desolate heat of the Red Barrens and the great desert. He understood the value of being able to conjure water into being, purely through Memory. Perhaps he could even return one day, to the Naru, and teach what he had learned.

Once he had a solid grasp of it, of course. Which, at the pace he was setting, might actually be soon.

"Remember the Gravel Sea," the Keeper advised as they walked. Their footfalls crunched against dead leaves and layers of frost. The blind man had summoned a slowly congealing cloud of vapor at the tip of his index finger. It trailed after him, as he slowly spun his hand in a circle. Water flecked away from the cloud, freezing into tiny snowflakes and littering the ground.

"Remember the way the air felt, that unseen pressure against your skin. Remember the stillness, before the storm," the Keeper continued, his voice a pleasant drone. "The water against your skin, that cool feeling as air brushes against it. And the smell of it— earthy and thick, like breathing through syrup."

Nicos inhaled as he walked, letting the man's words stir his Memory. He tasted water, dirt and leaves, dust and soil. The moisture rattled in his chest, cooling and cleansing. He saw those vast, dark clouds, and mist billowing across broken earth. Nicos breathed out, and fog billowed forth from his mouth.

As it turned out, the boy's exposure to a literal god of storms had, perhaps unsurprisingly, left a massive imprint on his Memory. Summoning fog like this was almost easy. Condensing it into water was proving a little more difficult, but the boy was making steady progress. He remembered the storm, the heavy, pounding rain, and the shimmer in the air as a wall of water came crashing down upon him.

He breathed out once more, as he pressed his hand into the fog that he had just conjured. He felt the cool moisture brushing against his skin and he pushed out his Memory! The fog swirled indecisively but—a vast sky of grey and black clouds—twisted, then darkened. With a soft shimmer, rain began to fall. A storm cloud the size of Nicos' head hovered over his hand.

"It's a start," the Keeper declared with satisfaction. Silver eyes stared vacantly at the isolated phenomenon, and smooth lips curved into a smile. "Quite the overachiever, aren't you boy?"

Nicos grinned back at him, proud and exuberant. The moment his focus shifted, the cloud sputtered and died. It broke into fog, quickly fading into a white wisp, but the boy was undeterred. It was one more step, one more success, on his road to power.

It felt like he was walking down a path without end, but with each step, his excitement only grew. Nicos could not guess the sights he might see, the great feats he might gaze upon, or perform. The future was no longer his to know. He had once lived his life knowing that he would serve and die beneath the All-King. He once trained for the goal of succeeding his father, as a Hero to the people of Farathun. Now, his path was uncertain. The end was unclear. But his conviction had not wavered, even if his goals had shifted focus. He would emerge from this fog, stronger than ever. He would carve his name into history, and leave a legacy that would last millennia.

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That was the promise Nicos of Farathun made to himself, that day on the mountainside. That was the resolve that embedded itself in his heart and soul and Memory. If his teachers noticed, they did not say a thing. But the boy's efforts in training steadily increased, and both of his companions were happy to accommodate him.

It was about belief, at the end of the day. Just like Eurya had once told him, stubborn self-confidence was a strength of its own, and Nicos was not lacking in stubbornness. With his resolve reignited, he set about securing his future.

In the meantime, the party walked ever onwards. Cold became a constant companion, and Nicos was forced to resonate with his Memory of the desert to stay warm. The ground remained treacherous, and casting solid footing into the earth became an almost constant habit. Learning to multitask became an imminently pressing issue, as Eurya beat him black and blue each night with contemptuous ease. She could already make him appear as a toddler with the blade, he could afford no additional distractions in their duels. He had come no closer to actually landing a blow, but every day he lasted another second or two. He counted it as progress, minor as it was.

When she wasn't sparring with him, Nicos worked through the agonizingly slow process of properly resonating with the shadow of his teacher that slept in his sword. The longstride technique was too powerful to ignore. The temptation to call upon Eurya's Memory was almost overwhelming. He would not be able to resist, should a battle become life and death. It was almost like he was a child again, learning to resonate with his ancestors. The boy needed to master himself, and the tiny fraction of Eurya that he had blundered into summoning.

His training with the Keeper continued, both with the ashthrower, and with casting in general. His new weapon was as cumbersome as ever, but the boy had managed to at least properly aim the thing with his off-hand, even if he wasn't particularly precise. The way he saw it, the weapon spat fireballs as wide as an infantry line. He didn't need to be accurate, just quick. Anything capable of even seeing the business end of his ashthrower would likely be incinerated, and his sword could deal with anything that wasn't. And now, he was even able to put out the fires he created.

The boy had learned to summon fog and rain. Sort of. He could give himself a shower, or fill a canteen, if the weather was already humid. Given time, he could summon up a tiny thundercloud, a black ball of lightning and rain that crackled menacingly in the palm of his hand. It was intimidating, and not much else. The blind man promised that, should the boy grasp watercasting well enough to summon a proper storm, they could use the cloud manta to travel. That level of power was likely years away, but it made for an excellent goal to focus upon.

The boy knew it was possible. He had watched the Keeper punch a hole in the sky with a few muttered words. He watched the blind man overcome the domain of a god, dead though it was, with a single, lazy gesture. The boy would reach those heights, one day, he vowed.

But, in the meantime, he would settle for reaching a less metaphorical height. After a full turn of travel, he and his two teachers finally reached the peak of the accursed mountain they had been climbing. Nicos was given the privilege of being the first to mount that lofty peak, and he was struck by awe at what he could see.

Everything. He saw everything. All that there was to see, for thousands of miles in every direction. The day was clear, not a cloud in the sky. The Twins burned merrily overhead, almost close enough to touch. The air was cool, frigid and dry. It was a beautiful day, if unremarkable. But today, the boy gazed upon the entirety of existence.

It all looked so... small. It was as if the sky was swallowing the earth. What was above, was so much more than what lay below. The ground, the earth, the world, was just a tiny speck, in the eye of a boundless abyss. Tiny, yet beautiful. An open field of green before him, towering trees and wide-open plains, and a few shimmering spots on the ground that he knew were cities. At the edge of the horizon, past the forests and hills, were mountains once more. One, towering high above the rest. A black peak, whose shadow covered an entire stretch of land.

"Mount Morag," Eurya said softly, her eyes peering into the distance.

It was massive; Nicos understood that implicitly. Even so, at this distance, it seemed so plain. Like something a child would play with. Or perhaps a carpenters carving, a crude replica of something they couldn't really understand. It seemed so much less than it was. Not a hint of the domineering aura he had expected from the home of a titan. None of the menace or respect that such a legendary creature demanded.

The Keeper came up to the boy's side. His voice was quiet and contemplative.

"You are not the first to travel with us, Nicos," he admitted. "Its something we like to do, every few centuries. Take a mortal we like, someone small and fragile, and bring them with us on our travels. Do you know why?"

The boy shook his head, never moving his eyes from the grandeur before him.

"Perspective," the Keeper said. He gestured before him, to the overwhelming vastness of existence. It seemed more a painting than reality. Something still, and unmoving. No life to be found, just colors.

"When you stand at the peak of the world," the Keeper whispered somberly, "you see everything, yet nothing."