The road stretched on, winding between darkening groves and low hills, and the silence of the forest was broken only by the steady creak of Brakka's iron-plated hooves against the dirt. Arun had taken a perch on the carriage bench now, watching Taru manage the reins with a casual precision that belied his age. Every so often, the boy would glance back to ensure Arun wasn't half-asleep or letting his attention drift.
"Why do you keep the reins like that?" Arun asked, gesturing at Taru's hands, loose but perfectly balanced.
"Brakka can feel me," Taru replied with a shrug. "If I grip tight, he fights me. Too loose, and I lose control. It's like… dancing. You learn the rhythm and flow. Force comes last."
Arun considered that, then nodded slightly. There was a simplicity in it, but also discipline.
The carriage itself became more than just a mode of transport as they moved. Inside, hidden beneath the wooden floorboards, were compartments designed with ingenuity. A small iron stove sat snug against the rear panel, the chimney cleverly routed through the roof with adjustable vents to avoid smoke building inside the carriage . Brakka's breaths shook the carriage gently, so the stove had a locking mechanism that managed to keep it stable even on rougher ground. Taru had packed dried meats, hard bread, preserved fruits, and a small barrel of water. The floorboard compartments also contained extra harnessing straps, iron reinforcements for the carriage's axles, and a set of basic tools; hammer, tongs, nails, and chisels.
Arun leaned back, eyes scanning the trees, and asked, "So we take turns riding?"
"Yeah," Taru said. "I drive first. Keeps Brakka steady. You ride when I need to fix a wheel, cook, or" He tapped the stove. " make us breakfast without a fight from smoke or sparks."
When they stopped, Taru would swing down, roll the stove open, and light it carefully using a spark from a small ember shard. A thin wisp of smoke drifted through the chimney vent, rising into the canopy above. Arun would take Brakka's lead during these breaks, feeling the iron-backed bull shift beneath him, muscles tightening and relaxing with each measured breath. Taru's control wasn't brute, it was subtle.
Around evening, they took a break on a small rise overlooking a clearing. Arun watched the sunlight dance across the leaves, the forest vibrant in patches of amber and green. Taru produced a simple metal pan and cooked a quick meal over the stove, the aroma of boiled root vegetables and smoked meat filling the carriage . He offered a portion to Arun without ceremony. The steam from the stew curled softly through the carriage , carrying the scent of boiled roots and smoked meat. Taru wiped his hands on a cloth and leaned back against the wooden wall, watching Arun eat.
"Eat. Keeps your strength up. You're not invincible, even if you look like it."
"Noted," Arun muttered, accepting the food.
For a while, there was only the quiet crackle of the small iron stove and the distant rhythm of Brakka shifting outside. The lantern light swayed gently with the carriage's subtle movements, casting warm shadows along the carriage walls. Taru stared at the flame for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
He cleared his throat.
"Uhm… Arun, I've been wondering." His fingers tightened slightly around the wooden bowl. "What were you doing in Graden?"
Arun's spoon paused halfway to his mouth.
The question lingered between them, heavier than the steam rising from the stew.
Arun lowered the spoon slowly and leaned back against the wall. His gaze drifted toward the small window slit carved into the carriage door, where only darkness met him.
"I was looking for a man named Jared," he said at last. His voice was calm, but distant. "I was told I could find him if I moved west."
Taru blinked. He hadn't expected something so specific. So direct.
"I'm sorry," Taru said carefully, his voice softer now. "But… may I ask why?"
The question didn't feel intrusive just honest.
Arun didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he exhaled slowly, the sound almost lost beneath the crackle of the stove. His gloved fingers tightened slightly around the bowl. For a brief moment, his usual composure slipped not enough to shatter, but enough to reveal something underneath.
"When I was young," Arun began quietly, his voice no longer carrying that steady, unshakable edge, "I met someone I came to consider my teacher."
He stared at the lantern flame as if it were a memory.
"Someone who believed in me," he continued. "When I had nothing. No control. No direction." His gaze remained fixed on the floorboards. "He taught me everything I needed to know about my magic… until he couldn't."
Taru didn't interrupt.
Arun's fingers flexed unconsciously, and for a brief second a faint thread of White Flame traced along his knuckles before fading again.
"Before he passed," Arun said, voice lowering, "he told me that if I ever hit a roadblock and my power stopped growing, or if I didn't know how to move to the next level. I should find Jared. He said Jared would know what to do next."
The carriage felt smaller somehow. Warmer. Quieter.
"And… did you?" Taru asked gently.
Arun gave the faintest shake of his head.
"I don't know."
He leaned back against the wooden wall, eyes half closed. "I've grown stronger. I've learned control. But…" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "There's a ceiling I keep touching. Like something's missing. And I can't tell if I'm chasing an answer… or just holding onto his last words because they're all I have left of him."
Silence followed but it wasn't heavy. It wasn't sharp.
It felt calm and honest.
"I'm sorry about your teacher," Taru said after a moment.
Arun's lips curved slightly not quite a smile, but close.
"It's no worries," he replied softly. "He lived the way he wanted. Loud. Stubborn. Always pushing forward." His eyes warmed at the memory. "He wouldn't want pity."
Taru nodded slowly.
Then he paused, thinking.
"So…" he said carefully, "the reason you agreed to move toward Steel Haven was because it was west?"
Arun let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
"Yes," he admitted. "West is the only direction he ever gave me."
"That's it?" Taru tilted his head. "No grand vision? No secret signs?"
"Just west."
Taru stared at him for a second before shaking his head. "You're chasing fate with a compass and a vague instruction."
"And yet," Arun said, glancing at him, "I found you."
That caught Taru off guard.
"I wasn't part of your grand 'west' plan."
"No," Arun agreed. "You weren't."
The lantern flickered again, painting soft gold across the carriage walls.
"But sometimes," Arun added quietly, "the road gives you what you need before you reach where you're going."
Taru looked down, unsure what to say to that.
Outside, Brakka shifted, iron hooves scraping softly against dirt. The forest wind whispered against the carriage.
"You know," Taru said after a moment, voice steadier now, "even if Jared doesn't have the answer… maybe your teacher just wanted you to keep moving. Not get stuck."
Arun didn't respond immediately.
But something in his expression changed like a knot loosening.
"Maybe," he said.
The White Flame flickered faintly at his fingertips again not fierce, not blazing. Just steady. Controlled. Alive.
And for the first time since he had spoken of his teacher, the emptiness behind his eyes wasn't as deep.
The road west still stretched long and uncertain.
The stove burned low. The stew bowls sat empty between them.
Taru shifted slightly, curiosity overtaking hesitation.
"So…" he said, glancing at Arun's hand where the White Flame flickered softly, "what level are you stuck at?"
Arun didn't react at first. The question wasn't invasive just practical. In their world, levels weren't pride. They were survival.
"Level nine," Arun answered calmly. "Trying to break through to level ten."
The words hung in the air.
Taru's eyes widened despite himself.
"Woah." He straightened. "That's honestly impressive. Someone who looks as young as you being level nine?"
Arun huffed faintly.
"That's what I've been told for the past two years."
Taru blinked. "three years?"
"I reached level nine when I was eighteen." Arun's tone remained even, but there was something faintly weary beneath it. "I'm twenty-one now."
"You've been stuck that long?" Taru asked quietly.
Arun nodded once.
"At first, I thought it was just refinement. Level nine is dense. Heavy. You're compressing everything you've built." His fingers flexed slowly. The White Flame tightened into a thin, razor-bright thread before dissolving. "But no matter how much I refine it… it won't cross over."
Taru leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "What's different about ten?"
Arun's gaze sharpened slightly.
"Level ten isn't just more power," he said. "It's transformation. The mana core stabilizes into a higher state. Your element stops being something you use." His voice lowered. "It becomes something you are."
A faint pulse of white light glowed beneath his armor at his chest then faded.
"If I can't reach it," he continued quietly, "then this might be as far as I go."
The calmness in his tone made it heavier.
Taru frowned.
"You're level nine at twenty-one. That's insane," he said. "Most people never pass level five. Some winged adventurers can't get past ten. And most winged guards at seventeen"
Arun's eyes shifted toward him.
"And yet," he said softly, "I can't take the next step."
There it was again.
The feeling exhaustion.
Taru studied him for a moment, then looked down at his own hands.
"You know," Taru said slowly, "maybe that's the problem."
Arun raised a brow. "The problem?"
"You keep trying to 'break through.'" Taru made small air quotes with his fingers. "Like it's a wall."
Arun didn't interrupt.
"When I fix an axle," Taru continued, "if I force it into place, it cracks later. But if I realign the weight first, if I adjust the pressure… it slides in on its own."
He looked up.
"Maybe level ten isn't something you smash into. Maybe it's something you… step into."
The carriage fell quiet.
Arun didn't respond immediately. His gaze dropped inward again, not distant this time, but thoughtful.
"You sound like my teacher," he murmured.
Taru blinked. "Is that a good thing?"
A faint smile real this time touched Arun's lips.
"Yes."
Outside, the wind passed gently through the trees. Brakka let out a low, steady breath.
Arun lifted his hand again. The White Flame appeared; not sharp, not compressed, not straining. It simply hovered there, steady and quiet, casting soft light across Taru's face.
For the first time since speaking of levels, it didn't feel like a barrier between nine and ten.
It just felt… alive.
"Maybe I've been trying to force the door open," Arun said quietly. "When I should've been listening for it to unlock."
Taru grinned slightly. "See? You don't need Jared. You've got me."
Arun gave him a flat look.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
Taru laughed.
And in that small, swaying carriage on a forest road west of Graden, something shifted not in power, not in level.
But in weight.
Level nine no longer sounded like a ceiling.
It sounded like a pause before something greater.
And for the first time in three years, Arun didn't feel stuck.