The dawn crept over the training grounds like a thief, its pale light stretching shadows that coiled around Towan’s ankles—ghosts of the spears he’d narrowly dodged yesterday. His hands, calloused and still flecked with dried blood from the battle, trembled as he carved Essentia through the air. Each motion reenacted his failures: a half-step too slow here, a block mistimed there. Around him, Natural Essentia crackled in jagged arcs, its golden threads fraying at the edges like unraveling rope.

“Could’ve been faster there,” he growled, his voice roughened by a night spent replaying the fight in his skull. The memories bit deeper than any blade: the glint of a spear-tip at his throat, the hiss of projectiles sheathed in glacial Essentia, the sickening crunch of his ribs buckling under a mace. His muscles spasmed, phantom pain flaring where bone had nearly shattered.

Across the field, Elliot knelt on dew-slick grass, his fingers pressed to the earth. Before him, three unstable orbs of Essentia flickered—fire sputtering in angry bursts, wind shredding the pages of his notes, earth crumbling like rotten fruit. His sleeves were singed at the cuffs, his palms blistered from failed ignitions.

“I still can’t make my way through them…” Elliot hissed, clenching his fist until the half-formed earth orb collapsed into gravel. “The flows resist me. Like they’re… alive.”

Towan paused, his Essentia dissipating into the chill air. He studied his brother: the furrow in Elliot’s brow, the way his breath hitched—not from exhaustion, but frustration. Pride, Towan realized. Elliot had always been the thinker, the one who dissected Essentia like a puzzle. Asking for help would taste like ash on his tongue.

“That’s weird,” Towan said, feigning nonchalance as he tossed a pebble at Elliot’s shoulder. “You’ve never struggled with Essentia itself. Only the flashy stuff.” A smirk tugged his lips. “Why not ask Alira? Her fire’s as wild as yours is… whatever this is.”

Elliot stiffened. The suggestion hung between them, sharp as a whetstone. Ask for help. To Elliot, it meant surrender—proof that his meticulous charts and equations weren’t enough. But the truth gnawed at him: his Essentia itched lately, restless and foreign, as if the elements recoiled from something deeper.

“I’ll figure it out,” Elliot muttered, rising to his feet. His shadow stretched long and jagged in the dawn light, a shape too twisted for the hour.

Towan’s gaze lingered on that shadow. For a heartbeat, it seemed to pulse, its edges bleeding black. But then Elliot turned, and the illusion shattered.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Suit yourself,” Towan shrugged, though his fingers strayed to the fresh scar on his ribs—a reminder that pride made corpses faster than any blade. “Just don’t burn the field down. Again.”

As the brothers resumed their training, neither noticed the crow perched in the dead oak. Its eyes, glossy and too intelligent, tracked Elliot’s every move. Beneath its claws, the bark oozed a thin, iridescent sap that smelled faintly of decay.

The training grounds lay silent save for the labored breaths of the brothers, the air heavy with the acrid tang of spent Essentia and the metallic whisper of cooling sweat. Towan collapsed onto a weathered stone bench, its surface grooved by decades of blades and boots. Above them, the sky bled amber and violet—the academy’s spires casting skeletal shadows that clawed at the dirt. Elliot slumped beside him, his hands cradled in his lap like wounded birds. Raw burns crisscrossed his palms, and his boots were caked in mud and frost, remnants of wind Essentia gone rogue.

“Were you able to use an element?” Towan asked, tilting a waterskin to his lips. The water tasted of iron, or maybe blood—he couldn’t tell.

Elliot flexed his blistered fingers, wincing as a fresh droplet of crimson welled. “Not yet,” he admitted, his voice taut. “But I’m making progress.” The lie tasted bitter. His latest attempt with fire had seared his notes to ash, and the wind had retaliated with a gale that nearly flung him into the academy’s outer walls.

Towan snorted, tossing the empty waterskin aside. “Good luck with that, then.” He leaned back, gaze fixed on the distant dueling arena where Professor Rheon’s silhouette loomed—a mountain of a man dispatching students with bored efficiency. “I’m thinking of asking Rheon for a spar.”

Elliot’s head snapped up. “Have you gone mad?” His eyes narrowed, scanning Towan as if assessing a cracked blade. “He’s the strongest professor here. Why would he waste time on a first-year?”

“Maybe he’s bored,” Towan countered, rolling his shoulders until the joints popped. “Everyone here fights with elements. Flashy, predictable. He might crave a real challenge.” His thumb brushed the token at his belt—a chipped obsidian disk their master had given him. “The greatest warriors,” the old mentor had said, “never fear the edge of the cliff. They learn to fly on the way down.”

Elliot’s laugh was sharp, brittle. “Or he’ll break you into pieces and call it a lesson.” He gestured to Towan’s ribs, where mottled bruises peeked beneath his tunic. “You’re not ready.”

“And you’re not my keeper,” Towan shot back, rising to his feet. His Essentia flared instinctively, a faint gold shimmer dancing around his knuckles. “I need to see how far I can go. What’s the point of training if we never test the edge?”

For a heartbeat, Elliot’s resolve wavered. He envied Towan’s recklessness, the way he wore his hunger like armor. But the memory of their village—of flames devouring everything while Towan fought and failed to stop it—lodged in his throat. “Just don’t die,” he muttered, pressing a hand to the earth. A weak pulse of Essentia seeped into the soil, coaxing a single wildflower to bloom amidst the trampled grass. A petty defiance.

Towan grinned, all teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”