“Tú bhéreti, him bhréhtēr, esti túyos déhto. Dídḱes him nsmé, yes kwe nsóyes dnghwhér. Esti tú sérowos dhéhtom bhéreti?” the chief asked.

“Èǵh, esti,” Grok replied.

“Dusméti,” the chief replied.

The chief turned back towards Veil. “My son Grok, your sworn brother, will be your guardian. He will teach you to live as us, our customs, how we fight, and, probably most importantly, he will teach you to speak our language. Our trials will commence in six months. You must be ready before then. You must truly become one of us. Do you understand, Veil?” the chief said.

The chief saying his name startled him. Since he had met the stoic man, Veil hadn’t used his new true name more than a handful of times. He didn’t hate it but it had become confusing for him. “As I was saying,” the chief said with a cough to get Veil’s attention back, “Six months is all the time you have. Do you understand? I would love for you to have more time, but Grok is already promised to the trials, and if you’re not ready, it will hold him back. I cannot allow that, even by someone as important as the beast master. You must be ready. Furthermore, if you fail, you will be shunned. The village will assume it was a fluke, you being chosen to be the beast master, and even my power here couldn’t save you from that fate. Do you understand, Veil?”

Veil thought for a second before replying. “Yes, I understand.”

“Great,” the chief clapped his hands together, “you should get started.”

“Wait, like, right now?” Veil asked.

“One hundred eighty-two days, sixteen hours, and forty-two minutes,” the chief replied.

“Huh?” Veil asked.

“That’s how much time you have before the trials. It seems like a lot right now, but time waits for no man, even if he is a mythical man. Those hours will tick down swiftly, and soon you’ll be left with nothing but the fear you have not done enough.”

Veil looked down at the floor, the weight of the situation finally setting in. As his knees trembled, he fought to find words, his breath catching as he spoke. “I- I’ll do my best, sir.”

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“Be sure you do,” the chief replied, “but for now, we must diverge our paths. Be well, hero.”

“Be well,” Veil replied, an air of sullenness obvious in his voice.

As the chief passed, he placed a hand on Grok’s shoulder, smirking to his son. He walked out of the tavern and back into the sprawling village.

“Wéy débhuti gwéti,” Grok said, turning to the door. “Beast Master gwèm.”

Veil followed Grok out of the tavern and into the city and towards the gate in silence. Tank met them at the gate.

“Ǵhedhi só ǵhortós,” Grok called out to the guards. As he did, the guards raced rapidly to force open the gate for them to pass through.

“Did you just say open the gate?” Veil asked, mimicking the motion to Grok.

Grok nodded, walking through the gate, not speaking again until they came to a small clearing with an arms rack in one corner. Grok meandered over to the rack and pointed at it, mimicking the action of choosing one. “Pléḱesi glewdhi éti,” Grok said. “Wepóm.”

“Wait, wepóm sounds like weapon,” Veil ran over to the rack, pointing at the selection. “Wepóm?”

Grok nodded again. “Wepóm, glewdhi.” Grok picked up a great axe with a smirk.

Veil tried to pick up another great axe; his muscles betrayed him as his arms shook with the struggle of trying to lift it; his embarrassment nearly overtook him as Tank and Grok sniggered. “I guess I’m not a great axe kinda person,” Veil said sheepishly. His gaze slid over the spears, swords, bows, and arrows on the rack, but none of them called to him. None of them were right. He sighed and leaned against the rack, about to give up. Suddenly, a strong wind ran through the clearing, causing some of the weapons to shift and fall from the rack. Veil tried to catch them but failed. Most of the weapons clanged to the ground, revealing a short sword hidden behind them, shimmering in the late afternoon light. Veil reached out to touch the weapon. As his fingers neared it, it began to glow. His fingers brushed against the glowing metal.

“Swéḱeti só weapon, glewdhi ésti tú,” Grok said. “Glewhéti tod, hr̥nómésti.”

As soon as he had the weapon in his hand, Grok attacked quickly, swinging the battle axe and disarming Veil, kicking him to the ground.

“Hitero,” Grok proclaimed.

Again and again, for what felt like hours, Veil picked up his sword and readied himself. And time and time again, Grok quickly defeated him. But Veil would not quit. He continued on until his arms would no longer lift.

“Nos hme kwihtos, bhréhtēr,” Grok said, helping Veil from the ground for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.

They ate at the tavern before heading to Grok’s crudely built home. There was no furniture or art or any of the comforts that Veil had come to know, but in both of the far corners were bedrolls, simple sleeping bags and a waterskin.

“Hmé,” Grok said, showcasing his dwelling to Veil. “Hmé.”

“Home,” Veil said, understanding Grok.

“Hmé,” Grok replied with a smile, sauntering over to his bedroll and laying down.

Veil had never slept so well in his life. When he awoke the next morning, Grok was already eating.

“A, tú esti bhudhnoti,” Grok said with a smile, tossing some bread over to Veil.

Months passed much in the same manner. By day, they tirelessly sparred as Veil learned their language, and by night, they ate at the tavern.