Chapter 23: The Closest Thing To Home
Behind the dojo, hidden beneath a curtain of ivy and silence, lay a pool of steam. Soft ripples moved across its surface, glowing faintly where Essentia curled like mist—lazy, ethereal.
Towan didn’t hesitate. Boots off, shirt discarded, he waded in with a sigh that turned into a groan of pure relief.
“Oh my god,” he breathed. “This is the first nice thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Leon stepped to the edge, dropped a handful of crushed herbs into the water. They sank without a splash—and the heat flared.
Towan let out a yelp.
Elliot, meanwhile, slid in quietly and sank until only his nose remained above the surface.
“It was made for recovery,” Leon said. “But... I mostly used it to think.”
The water shimmered. Essentia danced across their skin in threads of warmth and pressure.
“I’ll check the kitchen,” Leon added, stepping back into the hallway. “We’ll need something to eat after this.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. The door closed behind him with a soft creak.
Only the water replied—bubbling quietly in the cold air, like it remembered voices that were no longer there.
Towan opened his eyes as the morning sun warmed his face through the hole in the wall.
Slowly but surely, he sat up and glanced at the opening.
"Guess we could put a window here..." he mumbled, slipping on his worn-out slippers before heading out of the room.
As he stepped outside, he bumped into Elliot, who seemed to have woken up at the exact same time.
"Had a good night’s sleep?" Towan asked, raising an eyebrow at the rare sight of Elliot’s messy hair.
"Haven’t felt this good in a while," Elliot replied, stretching his arms with a soft groan. "The bed wasn’t great, but honestly? Way better than I expected."
"Couldn’t agree more," Towan said with a grin as they made their way down the creaky stairs.
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At the bottom, a simple but inviting breakfast awaited them on the table—two steaming cups of tea and a small plate of fresh croissants. The scent alone was enough to make their stomachs growl.
"Damn. Leon made all this?" Towan said, impressed. "Guess he really took that whole ‘I’ll take care of you’ thing to heart." His lips curled into a smile.
Before sitting down, they glanced out the door and saw Leon outside, cleaning the front steps with a rag, brushing away dust and dirt like it was just part of his morning ritual.
"Good morning. Breakfast’s on the table," Leon said casually without turning around—already aware they were watching him.
"You think he slept at all?" Elliot whispered.
Towan grabbed a croissant, tearing into it with pleasure. "Who cares? Free food."
But as Leon continued cleaning—each swipe of the rag precise, almost ritualistic—Towan couldn't shake the thought:
This might be the closest thing to home we've had since Heartwood burned.
After breakfast, Leon stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed and expression unreadable. The morning mist hadn’t yet lifted, and dew clung to every blade of grass, glinting under the sun like thousands of tiny eyes.
“You’re both full?” Leon asked without turning.
Towan let out a soft burp. “Emotionally or physically?”
Leon didn’t respond. Instead, he pointed behind him.
A worn punching bag hung from a crooked wooden frame. It looked like it had survived a hundred wars and maybe started a few of them. Elliot’s eyes lit up—until Leon added, “That bag will only move when you punch with the correct flow of Essentia. Wrong rhythm, wrong angle, wrong breath? Nothing.”
Elliot blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Hit it,” Leon said.
Elliot nodded, cracked his knuckles, focused his breath, and stepped in. He tightened his fist, channeled his Essentia, and swung.
Thud.
The bag didn’t even twitch.
“…Cool,” Elliot muttered. “It’s glued to time and space.”
Leon finally turned around. “You’re still holding back. You’re afraid to hurt what’s in front of you. That’s why you won’t get a reaction.”
Elliot’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not afraid—”
“Yes, you are,” Leon cut in calmly. “You’ve spent your whole life protecting. You need to learn to hit with intent. Control doesn’t mean softness. It means precision.” He pointed at the bag again. “Now hit it like your life depends on it.”
As Elliot stepped back to try again, Towan followed Leon through the trees until they reached a shallow river—its centerpiece a single, flat stone jutting out under a waterfall.
“You’re not going to make me punch water, are you?” Towan asked.
“No. You’re going to kick. On that rock.”
The waterfall crashed down like thunder, and the rock glistened with a thin sheen of algae and death. Towan stared at it.
“You're joking.”
Leon smiled. “Not even a little.”
“I’m gonna die.”
“Not if you learn to adjust. You rely too much on momentum and strength. But control? Balance? You need to feel
the flow. The water will shift. Your footing will shift. Your Essentia will shift. Adapt, or fall.”
Towan sighed, already untying his boots. “You seriously woke up today and chose violence.”
Leon chuckled. “No. I chose balance. Violence is your job.”