Ezril’s surrounding squeezed as he stepped forward. His steps compressed beneath him. His calves hurt, reminding him of his early trainings of unarmed combat when Fravis required them to hit as many times as possible in a limited time.

One compact step! he ordered, but even in his mind he heard the plea in his voice.

The wind left his lungs. He felt the breeze blow passed him as his other foot came down. His vision blurred. Dark spots clogged its edges. Pain raged through his flesh. His foot met dirt. He staggered, caught himself before he fell, and the pain eased from his muscles.

Ezril kicked the ground, angry, vexed, and visibly put out. He raised a cloud of dust and sand. Everytime!

He still stood where he had started.

Everything had been right. He had followed every instruction, every explanation any of the boys willing to speak with him on the topic had given. He felt it in each step. The accomplishment. The burning. He felt each stride in that one step.

Then why can’t I do it?

“The forest is no place for an ill child.”

Interrupted, Ezril turned, fast and hard. His form was kept low, knees bent, eyes fierce, and Sunders in both hands. The seminary had done good in breeding him for fights. He was livid. He could feel it, all sadness and anger of his failure, gone. They were replaced by an alertness, an agreement to do whatever must be done, willingly or not.

“I guess it’s a good thing you don’t have arrows.” The voice moved closer. “I would not like to face you with a drawn bow.”

Ezril’s interrupter stepped into sight, and Ezril sighed.

“How are you here, old man?” he asked, relaxing his stance.

“I’m a wanderer. Remember?” The man seemed unperturbed by the mist. “Besides, I’ve known this place longer than you’ve known this life.” He leaned against a tree. “Also, we should really stop meeting like this, child.”

Ezril sheathed his Sunders. “What do you want?”

“Nothing really. I like the forest more than the cities.” The old man pointed deeper into the forest. “I saw a wolf chasing down a deer, alone. Rare thing.”

Ezril cocked a questioning brow.

The man continued without pause. “Wolves don’t hunt alone, especially not a wolf that old. And they are not indigenous to this forest.”

“It’s not.” Ezril eased his muscles. “And it’s mine.”

“How old is it?” The man seemed genuinely interested. “Eight? Ten?”

“Four.”

The man’s brows furrowed. “It’s too big for four. It’s not possible.”

For a man who knows a lot of things I’m surprised you don’t know about an Atle w—

Ezril frowned “I do not have time for your games. You know what it is, don’t you?”

The man made a sound as he came closer. Ezril wasn’t sure if it was a chuckle or an onset of cough. “Yes, I know. Atle wolves are the rarest of creatures across Vayla. Did you find it?”

“No.” Ezril shook his head, returning to the tree stump he had risen from, his toes clawing the dirt under them. “My brother did.”

“May I?” the old man asked, sitting without an answer, his back against Ezril’s. “I saw you stagger. You are not sick, are you?”

“No.”

The man rose, walked around the stump, and stopped in front of Ezril. “Then you don’t need a support to rest your back,” he said. “Why are you out in this cold air, bare feet, and staggering from a single step?”

Ezril studied him. The man’s eyes held more wrinkles than he remembered. His skin was more beaten, weathered from more than just the weather. A lot can happen in four years.

“It’s something I’m being taught,” he answered. “Something I can’t learn.”

“Ah, I see.” The man scratched his ear, returning to sit beside Ezril. “The Hallowed step.”

“You know it?” Ezril blurted, a tinge of excitement and hope in his voice.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Yes, I do,” the man smiled. “But the stand has to be learned first.”

Ezril felt his first genuine smile in a while. “You are a Hallowed.”

“Not anymore. I am too old. I’m like normal men, maybe less.” The man’s eyes saddened. “How long have they been teaching you?”

Ezril frowned. It was one of thought, not displeasure. “Almost a year.”

The old man shared his frown. “You are aware that only a Hallowed can use the step.”

“Yes.”

“So you should know.”

“But I have an Atle wolf,” Ezril argued. “It follows me on its own.”

The man’s frown deepened. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

“They only follow a Hallowed.”

“And how did you come by this false knowledge, child?” he asked, annoyed.

“A brother of mine.”

The old man sighed. He sat on the dirt. “One of the things that make Atle wolves divine in some lands is their ability to see a person for who they are. They do not choose only the Hallowed. They choose anyone,” he sounded solemn now, “even one who is not Hallowed.”

“But—”

Ezril silenced himself, Olufemi doesn’t know it all. He was angry for having felt hope in the first place. with no place to send it, he turned the anger on the man. “Why are you here? This is the third time. You cannot tell me this is chance.”

“No.” The man inhaled deeply. “It is not. I know your father.”

“And he asked you to check on me?”

“No, child. I check on you because I feel like it.” The old man surveyed their environment. The action drew Ezril’s gaze to a fallen tree. He hadn’t noticed it before. “Your father and I are old friends,” the man continued. “Like me, he wanders, meeting new people.”

Ezril didn’t want a story. “Do you know where he is?”

“No. He was never one to share. But I do know that he is alive, and well.” The man’s frown returned and Ezril realized the man had been smiling for a moment. It seemed there were people who smiled at the thought of Urden, Ezril noted. Then the old man spoke again. “You know the stand, correct?”

“Yes.” Apart from that, there was nothing else that told him he was Hallowed. “Like the Hallowed step only the Hallowed can use it.”

It seemed the only expression the old man possessed today was a frown. “This is not correct. Everyone can learn the stand. It is what connects Vayla’s children to her. The predators use it to hunt, the prey to hide, humans for control.”

“But…” Ezril felt a growing hate… I’m not Hallowed?

“The stand helps to attain the true step which only the Hallowed can use,” the man continued, seeming ignorant of Ezril’s state of mind. “I believe over the years those not Hallowed have forgotten its true purpose. They see no point to it if they cannot use the step.”

“Then it is true. I am not Hallowed…”…I am flawed

“You were taught to see the step as a number of strides drawn into one.” The man nodded his approval as he spoke. Again, he ignored Ezril. “It is the most effective way to teach it. However, it is not the only way. It can be different for each Hallowed. Every Hallowed is different. There are countless ways to teach it. It can also be learned without the stand.”

Ezril’s attention focused on the words. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I can teach it to you.” The man rose. His age was absent in the movement. “If you are Hallowed.”

It was odd how sometimes he moved like someone his age, and sometimes he moved like someone with a sudden burst of energy.

If I am Hallowed. Ezril saw hope. It was dashed when the old man spoke again.

“Meet me here every evening and we will make something of you.”

Ezril felt his chest tighten and it hurt him physically to say the words he knew were true. “I can’t.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I take the test tomorrow.”

“Oh.” The sound came out disappointed, and the man seemed to consider before he spoke his next words. “Then come with me.” He seemed to focus on each word, like a sculptor on a piece. “I will teach you. If you are not a Hallowed, there are a great many things I can teach you. I’ve been places where those that are not Hallowed can defeat a Hallowed when they have to.”

“But…”

“You must not become a priest of Truth, child.” The man shook his head, the gesture sad, almost annoyed, as if hidden in it all was a frustrated anger at the priesthood. “It is not the only path before you. No one is born a priest, and no one is born to become one.”

“I already am…” … I even talk like them…

The words replayed in Ezril’s head. Ones thought but once, and yet never forgotten. You talk like them, a voice spoke in his mind, enunciating each word …Like. Them.

Tears welled in Ezril’s eyes.

“Come with me, child.” The man offered him his hand. “I will teach you. But I cannot teach you in one night.”

I never considered myself as one of them. Ezril realized. It was always me… and them.

He looked up at the man’s face, suddenly needing more. Something. Anything.

“I do not know your name,” he said.

The man smiled. “Names will be of no import between us, child.” There seemed a truth to his words. “But if you must know,” he continued, “over the years I have been called many names. Dare I say, I almost do not remember the first. The life I’ve lived makes one know names bear little import.”

Reading the confusion on Ezril’s face he added, “I have fought two wars. The first, I won. The second, I lost. Defeat makes one understand what is important, child. For you, this will be one of many, and you will learn from them. I will make sure of it.”

I’m sorry I failed you, Ezril thought, stretching his hand, his mind wandering to thoughts of Teneri. He had really wanted to succeed so badly for her.

Even now, his brothers didn’t come first to him, and he noted it without care.

“If you desire a name to call me,” the man said solemnly, as if he wished he didn’t have to say what he would, “then there is one I would say I prove to favor. Cyrinth. It is also what your father called me.”

Cyrinth, Ezril thought absently. In his mind it was an odd name. Cyrinth the fool. The thought startled him. It had risen in his mind, but it was not his. Not consciously.

He cast the confusion from his mind as he made his choice.

There was no peace to be made in the seminary. He would miss Olufemi but Olufemi would survive. If anyone could, it was him.

As he reached for Cyrinth’s hand a sound bore a hole in his mind. It ruffled his thoughts and commanded his attention. It came from somewhere, yet it rumbled within him. It made him feel like prey. It was a low growl that quaked in his chest and he knew it before he looked.

He didn’t have the time to react as he saw teeth bared, stained crimson in blood.

Through it a predator snarled.