The sun had barely risen when Darak’Thar appeared on the training plateau. He didn’t need to speak. Garlan was already there. Standing. Silent.

  His body still bore the marks of yesterday. But his eyes were clear. Resolute.

  — You want to take more blows?

  — Until they no longer stop me.

  Darak’Thar gave no reply. He struck.

  The first blow cracked like an explosion. Garlan staggered back two steps, feet dragging in the dust. He bent, but did not fall.

  The second came like thunder. It slammed into his chest. He stayed on his feet. One knee buckled, his breath caught, but he endured.

  The third…

  There was no third.

  The third nearly split him in two. His body was hurled backward, rolling across the ground like a broken carcass.

  Marenna was already moving. Her healing root triggered instantly, but this time it wasn’t enough. She had to channel deeper, draw from her own reserves of mana. Tap into something new—more stable, more fluid.

  Her hands shone bright as living sap, and Garlan’s wounds sealed faster than ever.

  She panted. But she succeeded.

  Darak’Thar approached slowly, contemplating the exhausted pair.

  — Two blows. You took two. More than some stone dragons could withstand.

  Garlan cracked one eye open, still sprawled on the ground.

  — And the third?

  — It reminds you you’re not yet a mountain.

  He pushed himself up slowly, braced on one arm, breath ragged but gaze fierce.

  — I will be.

  Darak’Thar nodded.

  — Your body is hardened enough to no longer break at every strain. But you must still reinforce it. Anchor it. Raise it. Slowly. Surely. By stone, not by fire.

  He turned away.

  — Rest today. Tomorrow, we resume.

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  He lifted his hand, pointing toward a steep cliff face streaked with black and golden veins.

  — You will climb this wall under reinforced gravity. Each step, each hold, will shift according to your mass. This is not just an ascent. It is a struggle against what you have become.

  He paused.

  — And once at the summit, you will face a golem of stone shaped in your image. Same weight. Same strength. Same speed. If you wish to progress, you must first defeat who you are now.

  Later, as the canyon winds had quieted, Darak’Thar remained apart on a mineral ledge. Brenuss padded up beside him, silent.

  The Primordial spoke without looking at him:

  — So, little black dragon… you are the last of your line, aren’t you?

  Brenuss answered after a long pause:

  — Yes. Or… I think so. I’ve never met another like me.

  Darak’Thar inclined his head slowly.

  — I am not surprised. I have not seen a black drake in centuries. Perhaps a millennium. I assumed you were unique… but that is not always a burden.

  Brenuss kept his eyes on the horizon, solemn.

  — Maybe it’s a blessing.

  The next dawn, the canyon’s silence broke under Garlan’s heavy steps. He stood before the cliff Darak’Thar had shown him the day before. A sheer wall, streaked with black and golden veins, glinting in the pale morning light.

  Darak’Thar was already waiting, motionless.

  — Today, you climb. And you fight. Not against an enemy. Not against a monster. Against yourself.

  He lowered his hand. A ripple spread across the cliffside. Instantly, gravity shifted, pressing down on Garlan in proportion to his mass.

  — Climb. And above all, do not think. Let your body carry what it has become.

  Garlan obeyed.

  Every grip threatened to slip through his fingers. Every movement was an ordeal. But he climbed. Inch by inch. Muscles taut. Each breath precious.

  At the summit, gasping, sweat pouring, he had no time to recover.

  A figure of stone awaited him. His double. Sculpted from dark mineral, animated by silent magic.

  The Garlan golem.

  Same size. Same weight. Same power.

  It opened its eyes. And attacked.

  Barely had Garlan set a hand on the rocky ledge to rise when the golem lunged, slamming its heavy foot into his chest.

  Garlan gritted his teeth, twisted mid-roll, and trapped the golem’s leg between his own. With a brutal, fluid motion, he dragged it into a fall and hurled it against the cliffside.

  A sharp crack echoed across the summit. The golem was lodged deep into the stone, fissures spreading from the impact.

  But it didn’t stop. It dug its massive arms into the wall, disappearing briefly into the rock—only to burst out further away, facing him again.

  What followed was a storm. Fists, feet, tail strikes, headbutts. Every attack sharp, brutal, relentless. The golem cracked with each blow received, but Garlan faltered too.

  His body was bruised, bleeding, torn. Each breath an ordeal. Yet he still stood. Barely.

  From above, Marenna, arms crossed, shouted:

  — Hey, genius, maybe with your draconic armor you’d last longer? What’s the plan—get pummeled just so you can collapse into my lap for healing again?

  Garlan blinked, stunned.

  — Ah… right. What an idiot.

  He had stayed in human form.