Atlas woke to the smell of something burning.

For one wild moment he thought the Nightweavers had broken through the Keeper’s barrier during the night, that the cottage was on fire and he was about to become toast. But then he heard the sharp clatter of pots, followed by Elion muttering very loudly and very angrily:

“Why does every mortal recipe require heat at some point?! Ridiculous!”

Atlas sat up, rubbing his eyes. The cottage around him looked different in daylight — less mysterious, more chaotic. Books were stacked unevenly on every surface. Strange tools hung from the ceiling like decorations. A glowing orb floated near the window, lazily spinning like it had nothing better to do.

Atlas swung his legs off the bed and stretched. His pendant warmed slightly, like it was waking up with him.

He walked into the kitchen to find Elion holding a frying pan at arm’s length, staring at a half-cooked egg as though it were a magical threat.

“You’re awake,” Elion said without looking up. “Excellent. Your training begins now.”

Atlas blinked. “Training? Already? I just woke up.”

“And the Nightweavers don’t take days off,” Elion replied. “Eat quickly. Or… attempt to.”

He set the plate in front of Atlas with a sigh. “I tried.”

Atlas stared at the egg. It was… well, it was on the plate. And slightly on the table. And also somehow on the wall.

He decided not to ask.

He forced down as much as he could and followed Elion outside.

The clearing behind the cottage was wide and open, with patches of sunlight breaking through the tall trees. It looked peaceful — until Elion clapped his hands sharply and the entire clearing shifted.

Rings of light rose from the ground like ripples in water, forming a circle around them. Symbols glowed beneath Atlas’s feet, and the air hummed with energy.

“What is this?” Atlas asked, eyes wide.

Elion smiled. “The training field. Hidden from the world. Powered by the same force that protects my home.”

He turned to Atlas. “Today, you learn the basics of survival.”

Atlas nodded, trying to hide the nervous flutter in his chest.

“What do I do first?”

Elion pointed to his pendant.

“You learn to listen to that.”

Atlas looked down at the glowing circle resting against his chest. “But it doesn’t talk. It just gets warm.”

“Because you’re not listening,” Elion said simply. “Close your eyes.”

Atlas hesitated, then shut his eyes.

“Breathe,” Elion instructed. “Slowly. Feel the pendant. Not with your hands — with your mind.”

Atlas inhaled softly. At first he felt nothing except the wind brushing his cheeks. Then, gradually, something shifted — a tiny pulse, steady and warm, like a second heartbeat. He focused on it.

The world around him quieted.

The glow of the pendant grew brighter behind his eyelids, and suddenly he felt something else — a tug, gentle but insistent, pulling toward the right side of the clearing.

Atlas opened his eyes. “I felt something.”

Elion nodded approvingly. “Good. Again.”

They repeated the exercise until Atlas could sense shifts in the pendant’s energy without having to think so hard.

When he got it right, the glow brightened. When he messed up, it flickered.

“Now,” Elion said, “we test your reflexes.”

Atlas barely had time to say, “Test my wha—” before the ground beside him exploded with a puff of blue light. A small sphere shot out of the dirt and zipped straight toward his face.

“DUCK!” Elion shouted.

Atlas screamed and dropped to the ground. The sphere zoomed past him and dissolved like mist.

“What was THAT?!” Atlas gasped.

“A training orb,” Elion replied calmly. “Don’t worry. It only stings briefly.”

Atlas gulped. “Stings?!”

But Elion ignored him and raised both hands.

Five more orbs rose from the ground.

“Oh, come on—” Atlas groaned.

“Reflex training,” Elion said. “When the pendant warms, dodge. When it cools, stand still.”

The first orb shot forward.

Atlas felt the pendant flare. He rolled to the left just in time.

The second zipped upward. Atlas ducked again.

The third came at his shoulder — the pendant cooled instantly, so he froze. The orb passed harmlessly beside him.

Elion’s eyebrows rose. “Not bad.”

Atlas puffed out a breath, half proud, half terrified.

By the twentieth orb, he was panting, sweating, and questioning every life decision he had ever made.

By the thirtieth, he was sure this was some form of magical torture.

Finally, Elion clapped once. All the orbs vanished.

Atlas collapsed onto the ground. “Is… training… always like this?”

“Of course not,” Elion said.

Atlas sighed in relief.

“Sometimes it’s much worse.”

Atlas groaned loudly.

But Elion softened then, sitting beside him.

“You’re doing well. Better than most. The pendant chose correctly.”

Atlas stared at the glowing circle. “Why me?”

Elion looked up at the sky for a long moment, as if searching for the right answer.

“Because,” he said quietly, “you’re not just the chosen one. You’re the last one.”

Atlas’s heart skipped. “The last what?”

Elion didn’t reply immediately.

Instead, the wind shifted, carrying a distant howl through the trees — low, broken, and echoing.

Elion stood quickly. His face darkened.

“They found us again,” he whispered. “This fast… impossible.”

Atlas felt the pendant flare hot against his chest.

Elion turned to him, eyes sharp.

“Get up, Atlas. Training is over. The Nightweavers are here.”