By morning, the stone blazed white under the midsummer sun. It rose like a fang from the earth—smooth, impossible, defiant.

  The three young knights stood at its base, squinting up, armor already half undone, and expressions that suggested they were reconsidering every life choice that had led them here.

  Zak spat into the dirt and rubbed his hands together. “All right. No problem. Just… climb the world’s biggest tooth.”

  Reece wiped sweat from his forehead. “You’re not even going to reach the gum line.”

  Toby eyed the rock’s surface. It wasn’t stone exactly—too pale, too smooth. Sunlight turned it to bone, and every time the wind passed, it seemed to hum faintly. “Maxwell picked this on purpose.”

  “Obviously,” Reece muttered. “He probably made it just to watch us suffer.”

  A few paces away, Maxwell sat cross-legged beneath the shade of the stone, checking their provisions with the slow efficiency of someone who’d done it a thousand times before.

  Their entire journey fit neatly on a single blanket—the tent already pitched nearby, patched twice and still carrying the faint scent of smoke; four bedrolls rolled tight beside four wool blankets, damp from the night’s dew; and a single iron cookpot, blackened from years of fire. Two small knives, a dented ladle, and a wooden spoon Zak had whittled into something that might have been a bird rounded out their kitchen.

  He checked the waterskins—four half-full, a fifth bladder tied to the saddle for refills—and the sacks of oats, one already sagging from use. Two unopened bundles of horse-grain sat beside them, untouched since the reeds were plentiful enough to feed the beasts for now. Dried meat sat wrapped in waxed cloth beside small pouches of salt and pepper, and the stoppered jar that Reece swore was honey, though none had yet been brave enough to test it.

  A whetstone, spare bowstrings, and a roll of linen bandage followed. Maxwell’s old bow lay unstrung across his knee. Flint and steel clinked beside a tiny iron kettle, more morale than metal, its lid dented from years of travel. Last came the lantern. He turned it once in his hands, weighing it before setting it back down. None of them liked lighting it. Oil was precious, and light, he’d always said, should be earned.

  Four horses stood tethered nearby, their heads buried in the golden reeds that waved like a sea around the fang of stone. They’d eaten better than their riders for two days straight.

  Maxwell checked off each item in silence while the younger knights made their first attempts.

  Zak leapt at the rock like a man trying to punch a god. His boots skidded, his fingers scrabbled, and he slid down in a puff of dust.

  “Right,” he panted. “So it’s not that kind of climbing.”

  Reece pressed both hands to the surface, eyes closed, muttering under his breath. “Flow to the hands, not the lungs. Weight through the bones. Grip like a—” His foot slipped. “—like a fool.”

  Toby tried more carefully. He pressed his palms to the warm surface, slowed his breathing, and let his heartbeat match the pulse he thought he could feel within the stone. For a heartbeat, something clicked—a faint suction, a pull—then it was gone. His hand slid free.

  Behind them, Maxwell didn’t look up. “You’re thinking too hard. The Art doesn’t like being ordered around. You have to coax it. Let it answer you, not obey.”

  Zak groaned. “Can we coax it into building stairs?”

  “Only if you’re ready to fall down them,” Maxwell said dryly.

  The three tried again.

  And again.

  And again.

  By the time the sun reached its peak, they’d achieved nothing but bruises and a fine coating of white dust. Toby’s knuckles were scraped raw. Zak’s pride was in worse shape. Reece sat with his back to the stone, panting.

  At last, Reece spoke between breaths. “Ser Maxwell… what’s it meant to feel like? Tree sap? Like I’m supposed to stick to it?”

  Zak wiped his forehead and scoffed. “We’re climbing it, not courting it.”

  Reece rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean—that pull, that bond. Like the world’s answering back when you reach for it.” He hesitated, giving Zak a sideways glance. “I didn’t know you used sap to court, Zak.”

  Zak straightened, planting his hands on his hips in mock offense. “That’s Ser Zak to you, my friend.”

  Reece grinned, not missing a beat. “Right. Ser Zak, the Frog Slayer.”

  Toby chuckled. “Every knight starts somewhere. Frogs, rocks… next it’ll be dragons, if he lives long enough.”

  A low grunt cut through their laughter—the kind of sound they’d heard a thousand times before. It wasn’t sharp, but it carried weight. Instinctively, all three of them straightened.

  Maxwell didn’t look up from where he was sorting the packs, his tone even. “All good ideas, Ser Reece. Try them all. The Art’s not a one-size-fits-all boot. What I feel might not be what you do. You’ll find your own way—or the ground will teach you until you do.”

  Toby pressed his palms to the rock again, eyes narrowed. “You make it sound like the ground’s a better teacher than you.”

  “It is,” Maxwell said. “The ground’s fairer.”

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  He finished checking the last pack, tying it shut. “Three days’ worth of supplies before we need to hunt something.”

  Zak looked up hopefully. “Three days to climb that?”

  “Three days before I make you climb it hungry,” Maxwell replied.

  Zak gave an exaggerated look around—nothing but reeds, heat, and endless sky. “Yes, I see so many things to hunt. Maybe I’ll start with that cloud.”

  Maxwell grinned, a rare flash of teeth. “You see it too? Here I thought my view from the top was the best.” He pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his hands. “Now back to climbing.”

  The three groaned almost in unison.

  Zak muttered, “At this rate, I’ll end up a saint of falling.”

  Reece sighed. “We’ll build you a shrine when it happens.”

  Toby smiled faintly, already pressing his hands to the stone again. The surface was warm now, the air heavy, the wind low—as if the world itself were waiting to see if they’d learn to stand before they learned to rise.

  Maxwell checked the cinches on Piper’s saddle, his movements unhurried. “Keep at it. I’ll do a little scouting before nightfall.”

  Reece glanced over his shoulder. “Alone?”

  The old knight swung into the saddle with a fluid ease that made the horse seem smaller. “That’s the point.”

  Zak straightened, squinting. “And if you find trouble?”

  Maxwell turned Piper toward the south, reins loose in one hand. “Then I’ll ask it politely to wait until morning.”

  He gave them a final look—half pride, half warning—then nudged the destrier forward. Dust rose around the hooves and caught the sun, trailing after him until both man and horse blurred into the gold of the plains.

  The others watched a moment longer, the sound of hooves fading into the heat. Then Toby exhaled, rubbed the ache from his fingers, and said quietly, “All right. One more try.”

  By nightfall, the air had cooled and the white fang of stone was a silhouette against a violet sky. The three younger knights had lasted longer than pride allowed but not as long as they’d sworn. Their palms were scraped, their patience thinner than the stew Reece was coaxing to life over the fire.

  Zak lay on his back beside the tent, hands folded behind his head, staring up at the first stars. “I’m telling you,” he said, “the rock’s cursed. It’s laughing at us.”

  Reece stirred the pot without looking up. “You’re just sore because you spent more time kissing it than climbing it.”

  “That was strategy,” Zak said. “Intimidation by proximity.”

  Toby didn’t join the argument. He sat apart, cross-legged, the firelight catching on the sword resting across his knees—the Eaglelight blade. He turned it slowly in his hands, feeling the balance, the faint hum it always carried, like a living thing remembering how to breathe. Then he rose, took two steps back, and began to move.

  The drills came easy now—muscle and rhythm, breath and step. He flowed through the forms Maxwell had hammered into him: parry, shift, cut, recover. The sword moved like water, the air whispering around the edge.

  Reece glanced up from the pot. “You know training after dark’s how you cut your own ear off, right?”

  Toby didn’t answer. The world had narrowed—the sway of his stance, the pull of the blade, the faint scent of food drifting on the wind.

  After a while he stopped, blade angled toward the fire. He wiped sweat from his brow and said, almost to himself, “Smells good.”

  Reece grinned. “Of course it does. I didn’t let Zak near it.”

  “I offered advice,” Zak said.

  “You offered pepper until I told you we didn’t have any left.”

  Toby chuckled, sheathing his sword. “Not bad, Reece. You’re getting better at this.”

  Reece gave a mock bow. “Finally, recognition.”

  Toby sat near the fire, the sword still across his knees. The metal caught the glow—bright at the edge, dark at the core, a reflection of the night itself. “It needs a name,” he said after a moment.

  Zak cracked one eye open. “The sword?”

  “What else?” Toby said. “The king’s blade was called Solriz. Sounds like a legend every time someone says it.”

  Reece ladled out the stew with a smirk. “What about Feather’s End? Sounds noble enough—matches the falcon banner.”

  Zak perked up. “No, no—Peck’s Mercy! Or Rubybeak!”

  Toby groaned. “Saints save me.”

  Reece pretended to think deeply. “Winged Justice? The Beak of Destiny?”

  “Now you’re just trying to ruin my appetite,” Toby said.

  They laughed quietly together—the kind of laugh that comes easy after exhaustion. Then Toby looked down again at the blade, thoughtful. “Falreth,” he said finally.

  Zak raised a brow. “Falreth?”

  “The red falcon,” Toby said. “The one from the old songs. The one that flew so high its wings caught fire.”

  Zak scoffed, then hesitated. “That’s… actually not terrible.”

  Reece blew on his spoon. “I thought that bird was just a folk tale.”

  Toby looked south past the fire, out toward the dark plain resting under the stars. “So were elves,” he said quietly. “Until we saw them.”

  The fire popped, the reeds swayed, and the sword on his knees caught the starlight—as if the name had already taken root.

  The fire had burned low by the time Reece and Zak gave up their banter to sleep. The reeds whispered against the dark, bending with the breeze that carried the smell of cooling earth.

  Toby sat alone at the edge of the camp, cloak drawn tight, Falreth across his lap. The blade reflected the faintest trace of moonlight—a thin, red gleam that came and went with each breath.

  Hoofbeats approached soft as thought. Piper emerged first from the dark, then Maxwell—his outline familiar even before his voice came.

  “Area’s clean,” the old knight said quietly. “Pass it along when they wake. I’ll take last watch.”

  Toby nodded. “Aye, Ser.”

  Maxwell gave a small sound of approval—something between a grunt and a sigh—then led his destrier to the edge of camp, tethering him where the wind could reach. He slipped through the tent flap and was gone, the canvas stirring once before the dark took him.

  Toby turned back to the plains. The sky was wide and sharp, the stars so bright they looked close enough to touch. Overhead, a crescent moon hung low—not bright, but knowing, its curve like a smile that wasn’t quite kind.

  Its pale light brushed the pillar of bone-white stone, setting it aglow against the darkness. For a moment, it looked less like rock and more like something alive—the tooth of the world, gleaming, waiting.

  Toby watched it until his eyes ached, then lowered his gaze to the quiet fire. Surely tomorrow, he’d climb it—he could feel that certainty settling in his chest. To prove himself, to master the rhythm Maxwell spoke of, the Art that lived beneath skin and will. Every breath, every bruise, every effort was sharpening him for what waited beyond these plains.

  When the day came to face the elves again, he meant to meet them not as the boy they’d scarred—but as the man who would return that wound tenfold.