The winter deepened. Wind howled across the highlands, rattling pine branches and sweeping frost through the trees. Morning drills turned colder, the air heavier. But none of that mattered to Klaus. The crackle of Claudia’s pot, the swing of the wooden blade, the stillness of the trees, they all became part of a rhythm that grounded him, gave him something to hold onto.

Still, something within him remained unsteady.

He often caught himself staring into the fire long after the others had gone to bed. He would remember the look in his mother’s eyes that night, her holding the knife protecting Siva, the way she smiled at him as if saying everything will be fine. How she told him to run and live. That moment kept surfacing, unbidden. Her voice. Her scream. The cold. And his own cowardice.

He didn’t say it aloud, but he hated that version of himself.

One quiet evening, Aren sat beside him with a tired look in his eye, poking at the logs in the fire pit with a stick.

“You’ve improved,” Aren said. “Your form’s tighter. Your movements have purpose.”

Klaus glanced at him. “But?”

“But that’s just the beginning.”

Aren stood, letting the firelight catch his silhouette. “I gave you the basic rundown of training. But from here on out, I’m not going to tell you what to do. You’ll need to show me what you’re willing to endure to become a swordmage.”

Klaus set down his bowl. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Aren said, “starting tomorrow, you’ll be on your own. One week. Seven days. You’ll live in the wild, alone. No Siva. No Claudia. No magic. Only your instincts, your will, and your sword.”

Klaus’s eyes widened. “What if I-"

“If you want to be a mage,” Aren interrupted, “then quit now. Go warm yourself by the fire. Learn from books. Find comfort in theories and spells. But if you want to be a swordmage, you need to understand one thing. This path isn’t for the weak minded.”

There was no warmth in his voice. No kindness.

“If you break, you’re done. If you hesitate, you die. The blade demands more than talent. It demands resolve.”

The next morning came without ceremony. Aren handed Klaus a dull blade, a canteen, and a flint. “You know the forest. You’ve wandered it before. But this time, you won’t have anyone pulling you back when you fall.”

Klaus looked once at Claudia. She looked away.

Then the trees swallowed him.

The first day wasn’t the worst.

He built a shelter from snow and pine branches, just as Aren had taught. Caught snowmice with makeshift traps. Remembered how to dry wood before lighting it. But by the third day, the cold pierced deeper than before. His traps came up empty. His fingers bled. He fell twice on slick rocks, bruised his leg, and spent the night curled beneath a dead tree, teeth chattering, hunger gnawing at his stomach. The only reason he is alive is because of his magic.

He thought about going back. Thought about the warmth of the cabin, of Claudia’s stew and Siva’s gentle snore.

But then he remembered the fire in his dreams.

The screams.

The smoke.

And he forced himself to stand.

By the fifth day, his thoughts began to turn against him. They whispered that he wasn’t strong enough, that he didn’t belong here. That no child should suffer like this.

Aren’s voice echoed in his skull.

“If your heart isn’t steady, if your mind isn’t anchored, your blade won’t be either.”

He kept walking.

He slipped again. Ate bark. Laughed without reason. Cried without sound. The sixth day passed like a haze of snow and pain.

And on the seventh, he fell. Didn't give up using all his strength to crawl to the Cabin. He was to tired to say anything. He looked at the cabin tired. Thats when suddenly-

Claudia crouched beside him in the snow. Her warm hands gripped his shoulders as she helped him sit upright. His face was pale, lips cracked, and his coat torn.

“You made it,” she said softly.

His voice was barely a whisper. “Why are you here…?”

“I’ve been here the whole time.”

She helped him to his feet. He could barely keep upright.

“Aren told me to watch from afar. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was worried. This was the harshest he’s ever been.”

Klaus stared at the cabin. It stood in the distance like a dream, smoke curling from the chimney. His knees buckled. Claudia caught him again.

“He said if you really had what it takes, you’d come back standing. And here you are.”

They reached the door.

That night, the fire crackled as it always did, but something in the air had changed.

Klaus sat wrapped in a thick blanket, hands cupped around a hot mug. Claudia leaned against the far wall, arms crossed and eyes warm with pride. Aren knelt beside the flames, his gaze unreadable.

“You survived,” Aren said.

Klaus nodded weakly.

“Good. Then now you’re ready to understand.”

He looked up.

“Becoming a swordmage isn’t just about technique. Or power. It’s responsibility. You don’t stand in the back, throwing spells from behind a line of warriors. You fight at the front. You protect those who can’t. You make the hard decisions when others can’t.”

His eyes met Klaus’s directly.

“If your heart isn’t steady, if your mind isn’t anchored, your blade won’t be either. And that will get people killed.”

The fire popped.

Klaus thought about Siva. About his mother. About the flames, the silence, and the pain he carried in his chest.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” he said.

Aren’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“I want to become someone strong enough to protect others. To stand in front. Even when it hurts.”

He looked down at his bruised fingers, then back at Aren. “I want to become a swordmage.”

For a long while, Aren said nothing. Then he nodded.

“Training begins tomorrow.”

Klaus smiled through the exhaustion.

Claudia leaned over and ruffled his hair gently. “Took you long enough.”

The fire kept burning. Outside, the winds howled again, but the warmth inside the cabin held steady, like a flame that had finally found its place.