The training yard was a circle of packed dirt, surrounded by high walls to block the wind.
I stood in the center with Ryan. He was sweating, his hands trembling, small embers dancing between his fingers.
"Again," I commanded.
A wooden training dummy—a log with straw arms—stood ten yards away.
"I'm tired, Mom," Ryan whined.
"Zombies don't care if you're tired," I said, my voice hard but not unkind. "The Lord doesn't care. Focus. Don't just throw fire. Direct it. Make it hot. Make it fast."
Ryan took a shaky breath. He squinted his eyes, focusing on the dummy's chest.
Whoosh.
A fireball the size of a softball shot out. It hit the dummy, splashing flames across the straw.
"Better," I said. "But slow. Lily, shield."
Lily, standing on the sidelines, snapped a green barrier up just in time to catch a stray ember.
"Mom, he's getting better," Lily said defensively.
"He's getting by," I corrected. I walked over to Ryan and knelt, looking him in the eye. "Ryan, listen to me. Fire isn't just destruction. It's purification. When you burn, you need to will the impurity away. Burn the sickness, not just the wood."
I touched the charred log. It crumbled to ash instantly, leaving a small, glowing crystal of resin in the center—a concentrated remnant.
"Wow," Ryan whispered.
"You have the potential to be terrifying," I said softly. "But you have to stop being afraid of your own heat."
I stood up and turned to Lily. "Your turn. I'm going to throw a vine at you. Don't just block it. Catch it."
We drilled for three hours. By the end, Ryan had managed to melt a hole through a steel plate, and Lily had learned to catch projectiles in her barrier and deflect them, rather than just absorbing the impact.
They were exhausted, bruised, and filthy.
But as we walked back to the longhouse for dinner, Ryan looked at the treeline with a new expression. Not fear.
Determination.
They were becoming weapons. And I was the whetstone.