Jon
Master Zhi's study smelled of ink and old paper, the same familiar scent Jon remembered from his lessons months ago. Scrolls lined the walls in careful rows, each one labeled in Zhi's precise calligraphy. Morning light slanted through the narrow windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily through the air like golden snow.
"Remove your shirt," Zhi said, his voice carrying the clinical detachment of a scholar examining a particularly interesting text. "Sit on the bench."
Jon complied, pulling the simple cotton garment over his head and folding it neatly beside him. The study was warm despite the early hour, and he felt no discomfort as the old scholar approached with his instruments—thin metal rods of varying lengths, a set of bronze measuring tools etched with gradations too fine for Jon to read, and a length of silk cord marked at regular intervals with red dye.
The examination was more thorough than Feng's had been. Different tools, different focus. Where Feng had assessed bone structure and martial capacity, Zhi assessed overall health with a physician's eye. He pressed two fingers against Jon's wrist, counting pulse beats with his eyes half-closed in concentration. He held a polished bronze disk to Jon's chest, listening to his breathing with an intensity that suggested he could hear things ordinary ears could not. He had Jon bend and stretch and twist, measuring the range of each movement with precise notation on a scroll that grew longer as the examination progressed.
Jon waited. He was used to this now—being examined, assessed, and measured. The monastery had taught him patience. The ability to let others see what they needed to see without trying to influence their conclusions. Two months of Feng's silence had cured him of the need to fill quiet spaces with words.
What will he find? Will it match what Feng said?
Finally, Zhi set down his instruments. He studied his notes for a long moment, his brush hovering over the scroll as if he wanted to add something but couldn't find the words.
"Remarkable."
The word came out almost involuntarily—Zhi's scholarly composure cracking for just a moment. His eyebrows rose, and he looked at Jon as if seeing him for the first time.
"Your fingers have completely regenerated. Not healed—regenerated. The bone density is higher than it was before they were broken. The joint alignment is actually superior to what it would have been naturally." He lifted Jon's right hand, turning it over in his own, pressing gently at each knuckle. "Here—feel this. The second finger, the one that was damaged worst. Press against mine."
Jon pressed. The finger responded instantly and smoothly, with none of the hesitation or weakness he'd grown accustomed to.
"Feng said the rebuilding makes things stronger."
"Feng undersold it." Zhi made another note on his scroll, his brush moving in quick, precise strokes. "Your ribs show similar improvement. The fracture sites are gone. Not scarred over—gone. As if they never broke. I've read accounts of the Golden Marrow Art's effects, but I confess I thought some of them were exaggerated. I see now they were not."
Jon flexed his right hand, watching the fingers curl and extend without pain. Even after weeks of experiencing it, the sensation still amazed him. For so long, his body had been a cage of limitations. Now that cage had been dismantled, bar by bar.
"But more interesting is your lung capacity," Zhi continued, setting aside the scroll and meeting Jon's eyes directly. "The seawater scarring hasn't disappeared—that would be beyond even the Golden Marrow Art. Some damage is permanent, written too deeply into the flesh to be erased. But the rib expansion has increased enough to compensate. Your breathing capacity is approximately ninety percent of normal now, compared to seventy percent before."
"Ninety percent." Jon considered the number. "Is that enough?"
"For most purposes, yes. For daily life, for normal martial training, for everything except the most demanding techniques—more than sufficient." Zhi paused, choosing his next words carefully. "For your breathing techniques at full power... that depends on the next stage of training."
Zhi set down his brush and met Jon's eyes with the gravity he usually reserved for discussions of history and strategy.
"You understand that this is only the foundation?"
"Feng explained. I can't use the techniques yet."
"More than that. The Bone Washing has given you the capacity to support greater power. But capacity and ability are different things." Zhi rose from his seat and moved to the window, his robes rustling softly. "If you tried to use your breathing techniques now—"
"I won't."
"Good." Zhi turned back to face him. "Because if you did, you might succeed. Your body could handle it—for a time. But you would burn through the foundation faster than it can be reinforced. Like building a fire too hot for the hearth. It might hold, or it might crack the stones. And cracked stones cannot be repaired—only replaced."
Jon nodded slowly. He'd felt the temptation already, in quiet moments—the knowledge that his body was different now, that perhaps he could try the techniques without breaking. The memory of those three seconds in the training yard haunted him. The feeling of power flowing through him, the swords moving as extensions of his will.
But Feng's warnings echoed louder. Foundation before tower. Structure before strength.
"I have to wait for marrow refinement."
"You have to complete Marrow Refinement. Six to twelve months more. Then—and only then—will your body be truly ready to channel what your techniques demand." Zhi returned to his seat, folding his hands in his lap. "The second stage is different from the first. Less painful, in the physical sense. But more demanding in others. You will need to guide the growth with your mind and feel your bones strengthening from within. It requires a kind of awareness most people never develop."
"Feng mentioned that. He said some students fail the second stage even after completing the first."
"Because they expect the same kind of challenge. They prepare for pain and find meditation instead. Many martial artists have strong bodies but weak minds—or rather, minds trained only for external focus, not internal awareness." Zhi's eyes were knowing. "You, I think, will not have that problem. Your mind has always been your greatest weapon, even when your body was failing you."
Zhi rolled up his scroll and set it aside but made no move to dismiss Jon. His expression shifted from clinical assessment to something more complex—the look he wore when discussing matters of politics and war.
"There's something else you should know. While you were gone, the political situation has... evolved."
"General Kai's war councils?"
"The rivalry between the great houses has intensified beyond what anyone predicted." Zhi moved to a map that hung on his wall—Yi Ti in careful detail, each major fortress marked, each border drawn. "There have been skirmishes on the western border. Several fortresses have changed hands. The Azure Emperor's grip weakens by the month, and the great houses smell opportunity."
Jon studied the map. He recognized some of the names now—houses he'd read about in Zhi's histories, fortresses whose strategic importance he'd learned to analyze. But seeing them marked with fresh ink, with annotations in Zhi's hand indicating troop movements and battles, made the abstract suddenly real.
"How bad is it?"
"Not open war. Not yet. But close enough that wise men are preparing." Zhi traced a line on the map with one thin finger. "General Kai has spent the last two months in constant negotiation. Alliances are forming, shifting, and breaking apart. Everyone is trying to position themselves for what comes next."
"And what does come next?"
"That depends on many factors. Including some that seem small now but may prove decisive." Zhi turned from the map to face Jon directly. "In two months, there will be a tournament. The Festival of Crossed Swords, held in the capital. Representatives from every major house will compete. It's part martial exhibition, part political maneuvering. Victories in the arena translate to influence in the council chambers."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because General Kai has expressed interest in sending someone unexpected. Someone who might demonstrate that House Kai has resources others don't know about. Capabilities that could tip the balance when the real conflict begins."
The implication was clear. Jon was the unexpected resource. A foreign boy trained by the Stone Tiger, wielding techniques no one in Yi Ti had seen. A weapon no one knew existed.
"I'm not ready."
"No. Not for this tournament. But there will be others. The Festival of Crossed Swords occurs twice yearly, and there are lesser competitions throughout the provinces." Zhi's voice carried a weight Jon had learned to recognize—the weight of plans being laid, futures being shaped. "By the time you complete your training..."
The sentence hung unfinished. Full of possibility. Full of expectation.
Full of pressure Jon hadn't expected to feel.
Jon
The afternoon sun warmed the garden as Jon and Mei Ling sat on their bench, in the same positions they'd held a hundred times before. Cherry blossoms had given way to summer leaves, the trees heavy with green, casting dappled shadows across the stone paths.
"Can I see them?"
She didn't need to ask what he meant. The question had been hovering between them since his return, unspoken but present.
"Are you sure?" Her voice was careful. "You said having them would tempt you. That you might try to use them before you're ready."
"I'm sure. I just want to... remember. What I'm working toward."
She studied his face for a long moment, searching for something. Whatever she found must have satisfied her, because she nodded and rose from the bench.
"Come with me."
Jon had never been in Mei Ling's room before.
It was larger than his—she was the general's daughter, after all—but less ornate than he'd expected. The walls were plain wood, undecorated except for a single scroll painting of mountains in mist. Books were everywhere, stacked on shelves and piled on the floor, some bristling with paper markers where she'd noted passages of interest. A practice sword leaned in one corner, its edge dulled from use. Her desk was covered with papers and half-finished calligraphy, with ink brushes scattered among them in careful disorder.
This was not the room of a general's daughter playing at scholarship. This was the room of someone who actually read, actually studied, and actually practiced.
She's been working, Jon realized. Not just waiting. Growing.
She moved to a chest at the foot of her bed—dark wood, carved with patterns Jon didn't recognize—and knelt to open it. From within, she retrieved a bundle wrapped in silk. Deep blue silk, embroidered with silver wolves running in an endless circle.
"I had the silk made," she said, not quite meeting his eyes. "The wolves were my idea. I thought... you'd like them."
Jon's throat tightened. The wolves were crude compared to the Stark sigil he remembered from Winterfell, but they were clearly wolves—running, free, and fierce. She'd remembered what he told her about his house, about his family. She'd incorporated it into the keeping of his dream.
"I do."
She placed the bundle in his hands. It was heavier than he expected, or perhaps memory had lightened it.
He unwrapped it slowly, the silk sliding away to reveal the twin practice swords he'd carved himself in those pre-dawn hours behind the stable. Wood, not steel. Simple, even crude compared to real weapons. The grain was uneven, the balance imperfect, and the edges rough where his inexperienced hands had struggled with the carving knife.
But they were precious anyway. Precious because of what they represented. The dream of Arthur Dayne. The hope that he could become something more than what he was.
He took them in his hands.
They were lighter than he remembered. Or maybe his hands were stronger. Either way, when he shifted his grip, testing the weight, the balance felt different than it had before the monastery. His fingers wrapped around the hilts without pain, without trembling. His wrists turned smoothly, without the grinding protest of damaged joints.
He could use these now. Really use them. His body wouldn't betray him the way it had in the training yard.
But I shouldn't. Not yet. Not until the foundation is complete.
He didn't swing them. Didn't practice any forms. Just held them, feeling their weight, remembering.
"Arthur Dayne."
"What?"
"That's who I was thinking of when I made these. The greatest knight who ever lived. Two swords, like him."
Mei Ling sat on the edge of her bed, watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Patient. Curious. Something else beneath.
"But Feng was right," Jon continued. "I wasn't really chasing Arthur Dayne. I was chasing... worthiness. Proof that I could be something more than what I was. More than the bastard of Winterfell. More than the slave they branded and broke."
"And now?"
Jon turned the swords over in his hands, watching the afternoon light play across the wood grain. Each whorl and knot was familiar—he'd stared at them for hours during those secret practice sessions, memorizing every detail.
"Now I think maybe worthiness isn't about being like someone else. It's about becoming the best version of yourself. Arthur Dayne was Arthur Dayne. I can only be Jon Snow."
"That sounds like wisdom."
"It sounds like something Feng would say." A small smile crossed his face. "Maybe some of his teaching stuck."
The decision came easier than he expected.
"Keep them. Until I'm ready."
"Jon, you could—"
"I know." He met her eyes. "My hands work now. I could practice without breaking. I could start learning the forms, building the muscle memory. Part of me wants to—badly."
"Then why not?"
"Because I'd be building on an incomplete foundation. Feng said, "Foundation before tower." If I start practicing the advanced forms now, I'll develop habits based on what my body can do today, not what it will be able to do after Marrow Refinement." He began wrapping the swords again, carefully, the silk wolves gleaming in the afternoon light. "When the second stage is done—when I can use the breathing techniques without destroying myself—then I'll take them back. Then I'll earn them."
Mei Ling took the bundle from him. Held it against her chest, the way she'd held it the first time, the day he'd given them to her in the garden.
"I'll keep them safe. Like before."
"I know you will."
"And when you come back—when you're ready—we'll find out if you're as good as Arthur Dayne."
"I'll never be as good as Arthur Dayne."
"Then you'll be as good as Jon Snow." She smiled—that fierce, sharp smile he'd carried through two months of darkness. "That might be better."
Sun Cao
He'd been watching Jon for three days now.
Not obviously—Sun Cao was too proud for obvious interest—but watching nonetheless. From the edges of rooms. Through windows. During meals when he thought no one was paying attention.
The foreign boy was different. Not just physically, though that was part of it. The white hair was the same, the grey eyes, the lean build. But he moved differently. Stood differently. There was a groundedness to him now that hadn't been there before—the same quality Sun Cao had seen in his father's most senior officers, men who had trained for decades and fought in a dozen campaigns. The quality of someone who knew exactly where their feet were planted and exactly what their body could do.
The Stone Tiger's training, Sun Cao thought. It actually worked.
Part of him had hoped it wouldn't. Had hoped Jon would return the same as before, or worse—damaged further by training his body couldn't handle. That would have been simpler. It's easier to maintain the distance, the rivalry, and the comfortable hostility.
Instead, the foreign boy had come back transformed, and Sun Cao found himself uncertain how to feel about it.
He found Jon in the training yard late afternoon, practicing basic forms alone—no weapons, no breathing techniques, just movement. The same forms Sun Cao had learned as a child, the foundation of every martial style taught in Yi Ti.
Jon's execution was competent. Better than competent in some ways—his movements had a fluidity that spoke of natural talent, an instinctive understanding of how bodies were meant to move. But the technical details were wrong. Small errors that a proper teacher would have corrected years ago. Habits that had been allowed to calcify through self-teaching.
Sun Cao watched for several minutes, cataloging the flaws. The dropped shoulder. The incorrect hip rotation. The timing errors in transitions. Things that wouldn't matter in a street fight but would be fatal against a trained opponent.
He's going to represent this fortress someday, Sun Cao realized. In tournaments. Maybe in battle. And he's going to embarrass us all if no one fixes this.
Before he could think better of it, he was walking toward the training area.
Jon noticed his approach but didn't stop. His focus remained on the forms, though Sun Cao could tell some portion of his attention had shifted—aware, alert, prepared for conflict.
He expects me to mock him. That's what I would have done before.
"You're dropping your left shoulder."
Jon paused mid-movement. Looked at Sun Cao with an expression of pure surprise.
"What?"
"In the transition between the second and third positions. You're dropping your left shoulder. It opens your side to a thrust—anyone with proper training would put a blade through your ribs before you finished the movement."
Jon's surprise deepened. Sun Cao had never offered correction before. Criticism, yes—sharp words about technique, about form, about the presumption of a foreign-born nobody thinking he could compete with properly trained students. Mockery, occasionally, when Mei Ling wasn't around to glare at him. But not genuine instruction.
"Like this?"
Jon adjusted, raising his left shoulder, holding the position for Sun Cao's inspection.
"Better. But your hip is still leading wrong. You're rotating from the waist instead of the core—it costs you power and balance. Here—"
Before he realized what he was doing, Sun Cao was demonstrating. Moving through the transition himself, showing Jon the proper alignment—hips square, weight centered, power flowing from the ground up through the legs and core and out through the arms. The way his own teachers had shown him years ago, before his father died, before he became an orphan taken in by another man's charity.
Jon copied the movement. Closer this time. Still not perfect—years of self-teaching couldn't be corrected in minutes—but the improvement was visible.
They stood together in the training yard, an uncomfortable truce settling over them. The late afternoon sun stretched their shadows across the packed earth, two figures who had been at odds for so long they'd almost forgotten why.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you helping me? You've never wanted to before."
Sun Cao considered lying. Deflecting. Maintaining the old hostility was easier than whatever this was. The foreign boy had taken something from him—Mei Ling's attention, Mei Ling's affection, a place in the household that should have been Sun Cao's alone.
But something about Jon's directness—the same directness that used to irritate him—demanded honesty in return.
"In the training yard. The day you collapsed. I saw something."
"Everyone saw something."
"I saw three seconds of something impossible. Movement that shouldn't exist—two swords flowing like water, patterns I've never seen in any martial tradition." Sun Cao's voice was steady, but the memory still unsettled him. "And then I saw you break. Your hand is cramping. Your body failing you. The look on your face when you realized what was happening."
He met Jon's eyes.
"And I realized I was angry at the wrong thing."
"What do you mean?"
"I was angry that you existed. That you'd washed up on our beach and stolen everything I thought was mine—Mei Ling's friendship, Master Zhi's attention, a place in this household. I was angry that you had something I didn't understand, some power or technique or gift that made people look at you differently."
The words came harder now, dragged up from somewhere Sun Cao had tried not to examine too closely.
"But when you broke—when your body failed you in front of everyone—I recognized it. The feeling of your own limits stopping you. Of wanting something so badly and having your own flesh betray you."
Jon said nothing. Just waited. Listening in a way Sun Cao hadn't expected.
"I'll never move like you moved in those three seconds. Not if I train for fifty years. That's not false modesty—it's truth. Whatever you have, whatever technique or gift the gods gave you, I don't have it. I never will."
"Then why help me?"
"Because you'll never have what I have either." A thin smile crossed Sun Cao's face. "Discipline. Structure. The proper foundation. Years of training with real teachers, real techniques, and real correction. You taught yourself in stable yards and back alleys. You have raw talent—maybe the most raw talent I've ever seen—but your technique is full of holes."
He gestured at the training yard around them.
"Feng's training fixed your bones. But it didn't fix your forms. If you're going to represent this fortress someday—in tournaments or battles—you should at least fight correctly. Otherwise you'll embarrass all of us, and I refuse to be associated with someone who can't even execute a basic transition properly."
Jon's expression shifted. Something like understanding dawned in his grey eyes.
"That's almost generous."
"Don't get used to it."
"I won't."
They stood in silence for a moment. The training yard was empty except for them—the afternoon heat had driven most of the household inside, leaving the two boys alone with their uneasy peace.
Something had shifted between them. Not friendship—Sun Cao wasn't ready for that and might never be ready for that. But something else. Recognition, perhaps. Respect, grudging but genuine.
He came back, Sun Cao thought. He went to the Stone Tiger and didn't break. That means something. Even if I don't want to admit it.
"Thank you," Jon said finally. "For the correction."
"Thank me by fixing your forms. The left shoulder thing is embarrassing. If you fight in a tournament like that, people will think the fortress has no standards."
Jon laughed. It was the first time Sun Cao had heard him laugh like that—not at Sun Cao, not despite him, but with him. Like they were sharing something instead of competing for it.
Maybe there's something here after all, Sun Cao thought, surprising himself. Something we can build. Not friendship. But partnership, perhaps. Alliance.
"Same time tomorrow?" Jon asked.
Sun Cao considered refusing. Considered retreating to the familiar distance.
Instead, he nodded.
"Same time. Don't be late. And practice those transitions tonight—I won't waste my time teaching someone who doesn't work on their own."
He walked away before Jon could respond, before the moment could become something more than he was ready for.
But he was smiling slightly as he went.
Jon
The days blurred into each other, precious and fleeting.
Morning walks in the garden, before the day's heat settled in. Mei Ling pointed out new flowers that had bloomed while he was gone—orange lilies, white jasmine, and late-blooming roses in shades of red and pink. Jon described the monastery's austere beauty in return, the way dawn light painted the mountain peaks, and the silence that was so complete you could hear your own heartbeat.
Meals together, talking about everything and nothing. Jon learned what had happened in the fortress during his absence—which servants had married, which officers had been promoted, and what rumors circulated about the war councils. Mei Ling pressed for details about the training, about Feng, and about the monks who had gradually come to acknowledge Jon's presence.
Afternoons in the training yard, first with Sun Cao correcting his forms, then watching Mei Ling practice her own sword work. She'd improved—the older boy's teaching, reluctantly given, had made a visible difference. Her movements were sharper now, more controlled, her footwork more certain. She still held the blade too tightly and still telegraphed her attacks, but the foundation was there.
"You're getting better," Jon told her after one session.
"Sun Cao is a demanding teacher." She wiped sweat from her forehead. "He yells less than he used to, though."
"Maybe he's mellowing."
"Sun Cao doesn't mellow. I think he's just less angry now that he has someone worse than me to criticize."
Evenings on their bench, watching the stars emerge. Mei Ling reading to Jon from books about the internal arts, asking questions he couldn't always answer. What does 'sensing the meridians' actually feel like? The books make it sound like seeing colors, but that can't be right. Jon is trying to explain, struggling to put wordless experience into language.
Comfortable silences that neither felt the need to fill.
Neither of them talked about the departure. It hovered over every conversation, every moment, the invisible weight of the calendar counting down. But they'd agreed—without agreeing—to ignore it until they couldn't anymore.
"When you come back next time, I want to spar with you," Mei Ling said one afternoon, after she'd finished her practice. "Properly. With real techniques."
"You might win."
"I definitely won't win. But I want to see how far you've come. How far we've both come."
And later, in the garden:
"Tell me about Winterfell again. The snow."
"I've told you a hundred times."
"I like hearing about it." She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "The way your voice changes when you talk about it. You sound... younger. Happier."
Jon looked at her—at the afternoon light in her dark hair, at the fierce attention in her eyes. She'd grown while he was gone. Or maybe he was just seeing her more clearly.
"Sometimes I worry I'm forgetting," he said quietly. "The details. What my brother's laugh sounded like. The smell of the godswood after rain."
"That's why you should keep telling me. So I can remember for you when you forget."
And later still, on their bench as stars emerged:
"Feng said the next stage is harder in some ways. Easier in others."
"Which way is harder?"
"The pain is less. But the meditation is more demanding. You have to feel your bones growing. Guide them with your mind."
"That sounds impossible."
"So did the first stage. I managed."
Their last evening arrived too quickly.
The fortress was quiet around them, the garden silver in the moonlight. Summer insects sang in the darkness, their chorus a backdrop to the silence between two children who had run out of ways to avoid what was coming.
"I don't want you to go."
She said it simply, without drama. A statement of fact, clear and final.
"I don't want to go either."
"But you're going anyway."
"I have to."
"I know."
Jon took her hand. Her fingers were warm, callused now from sword practice—harder than they'd been two months ago. She'd been working while he was gone. Growing. Preparing.
"I'll send word when I can. Feng might allow letters during the second stage. He said the isolation is less important once the foundation is laid."
"Might?"
"Probably. I'll make him allow it."
"You'll make the Stone Tiger do something he doesn't want to do?"
"For you? Yes."
She laughed—a small, sad sound—and leaned against his shoulder the way she had so many times before.
"Don't rush," she said quietly. "I know you want to. I know you'll try to finish in six months instead of twelve. But don't rush for me. Do it right."
"I'll do both."
"That's not possible."
"I'll make it possible. For you."
Jon
The gate stood open in the morning light.
A small group had assembled for Jon's departure. Master Zhi, with his scholarly composure and kind eyes, a scroll tucked under his arm—probably notes for Feng, assessments, and recommendations. Sun Cao with crossed arms and an expression that revealed nothing except perhaps a hint of what might have been respect. A few servants who'd come to know him over the past year, who no longer whispered "cursed" or "white devil" when he passed.
And Mei Ling, standing slightly apart, her face carefully composed into the mask of a general's daughter. Only her eyes betrayed her—too bright, too fixed on Jon's face.
Zhi approached first.
"The second stage will require everything you learned in the first. Patience. Acceptance. The willingness to let transformation happen instead of forcing it. You cannot rush bone growth any more than you can rush the seasons."
"I understand."
"I'll send reports to Feng. Updates on the political situation, the tournament schedules, anything that might be relevant to your future here." A rare smile crossed the old scholar's face. "And I'll keep her from climbing the mountain after you. Though I may need to post guards."
Sun Cao was next. Brief, as always—words weren't his strength.
"Work on the left shoulder."
"I will."
"And the hip rotation. And the third-position transition. And—" He stopped himself, almost smiling. "Just work on everything."
"That too."
A pause. Something almost like warmth flickered in Sun Cao's eyes, there and gone before Jon could be sure he'd seen it.
"Come back stronger. The tournaments won't wait forever. Neither will I."
Mei Ling walked with him to the gate itself, away from the others. The morning sun caught the dust motes in the air and made them glow like tiny stars. The road beyond stretched toward the mountains, toward the monastery, toward months of training and transformation.
"Six to twelve months."
"I'll aim for six."
"Don't rush for me. Do it right."
"I'll do both."
She didn't cry this time. Didn't crash into him the way she had when he returned. This goodbye was quieter. More controlled. They'd both grown in these ten days—or maybe they'd been growing all along, and only now could see how much.
When she hugged him, she held on just as tight.
"The swords will be waiting."
"I know."
"And I'll be waiting."
"I know that too."
She stepped back. Her eyes were bright, but the tears didn't fall. She was the general's daughter, and general's daughters didn't cry at gates where servants might see.
"Go. Before I change my mind and hide you somewhere."
"You'd do it, too."
"I absolutely would. Don't test me."
Jon walked through the gate.
The mountain road stretched before him—familiar now, not the unknown it had been two months ago. He knew its curves, its climbs, and the places where the view opened up to show the valley below. He knew the villages he'd pass through, the inns where travelers rested, and the final steep ascent to the monastery gates.
He didn't look back. He'd learned that lesson last time: looking back made leaving harder. It made you want to run back, to stay, to abandon everything you'd worked for in exchange for one more day.
But he carried her with him anyway. The jade wolf pendant against his chest. The memory of her face, fierce and bright and refusing to cry. The twin swords wrapped in wolf-embroidered silk, waiting in her room for him to earn them.
The fortress shrank behind him. The mountains rose ahead.
Six to twelve months. Marrow Refinement. The second stage of becoming whoever he was supposed to be.
For you, Jon thought, touching the pendant through his shirt. For all of you. For Mei Ling and Zhi and even Sun Cao. For the tournament that's coming. For the twin swords waiting to be earned.
Wait for me. I'll come back stronger.
I promise.
The road climbed. Jon climbed with it.