We broke for water. The room hummed once, a quiet acknowledgment, and remembered it was supposed to be quiet. My shoulders had been behaving for almost an hour, a fact that made me unreasonably proud. Then Julius ruined the moment by raising his blade again, this time with a look that said the next lesson was about to hurt in a different way.

"Last piece," he said. "Stillness that hurts."

He did nothing. And his nothing ate all of my options. He wasn't heavy. He wasn't loud. He was simply the end of my favorite excuses. My first idea for a start died in my chest before it could be born. My second lived, but only because I made it excruciatingly boring. He approved by not moving. He took it away from me anyway, just to prove that his approval wasn't a form of safety.

"Put your center in his way," he had said. "Not your blade. Your blade is garnish. Your center is the meal."

I let the feeling I associated with a good, honest answer expand from somewhere behind my sternum and into the air between us. It felt silly. It worked. He adjusted, and for the first time in our entire session, he adjusted like he had to, not because he was being generous.

"Again," he said, and it sounded like a quiet note of thanks.

We broke for the last time without a single drop of blood being spilled. My forearms buzzed with a clean exhaustion. My knees remembered their job. My spine felt taller in a way that had nothing to do with pride. Julius lowered his blade, and it became a simple object again. He was no longer a swordsman. He was a man standing on a balcony, and that was somehow more impressive than any stance.

"The lesson on the blade is done for now," he said. "You still lean on tempo theft. You still invite cooperation from the terrain. You still give me the afterglow of your cuts to play with. Fix those three, and you can call yourself dangerous. Fix them here, and the tower will stop trying to teach you the same lesson." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "But your sword is not your only tool. Show me your Grey."

I hesitated. "It's unreliable here. The tower taxes it into ash."

"Because you use it like a panicked librarian tearing a page from a book to dodge a thrown rock," he said, his critique brutally accurate. "It's effective, but it's wasteful and artless. You are a Mythweaver. It is time you learned to write, not just tear."

He gestured to the empty center of the room. As if on cue, a dozen small portals opened in the walls, and from them shot bolts of pure, kinetic force. They weren't overwhelmingly powerful, but they were fast, relentless, and their trajectories were designed to box me in.

My first instinct was my old, reliable trick. I created a seam in the air, a momentary tear in the page of reality, and stepped through it, letting a bolt pass harmlessly through the space I had just vacated.

"See?" Julius's voice was calm, but carried the pointed edge of a teacher. "Wasteful. You spent the energy to fold an entire room, just to move your body three feet. A flea using a sledgehammer to crack a nut."

I tried to block one with a nine-circle shield. The tower taxed the effort, and the shield was flimsy, shattering on impact. The feedback rattled my teeth.

"You cannot overpower the room's hostility," Julius said. "You must give it nothing to be hostile about. Stop tearing pages. Weave one."

He gestured again. The bolts kept coming. "Weave a shield of Grey," he commanded. "Hold it."

I tried. I reached for Purelight and Deepdark, for the two halves of the truth that created The Grey. I tried to pull them together not into a fleeting seam, but a stable, flat sheet. It was like trying to hold two powerful, opposing magnets together with my bare hands. A shimmering, book-sized page of Grey flickered into existence before me. It held for a half-second, then collapsed as the two constituent energies repelled each other. A kinetic bolt shot through the space and took a piece of my sleeve.

"Your foundation is strong," Julius said, ignoring my failure. "Your hands are not. You are trying to force the page to exist. You are still treating it like a spell you construct. The Grey is not a construct. It is a state of being. Give it an honest reason to exist, and it will stay."

I tried again, this time remembering the lessons of the blade. Stillness. No pre-load. No drama. I didn't try to force the two elements together. I created a quiet space in my mind, a point of perfect, boring balance. Then I invited Purelight and Deepdark to meet there. I didn't command them. I offered them a place where their opposition was not a conflict, but a necessary and stable truth.

A page of Grey shimmered into existence. It was smaller this time, palm-sized, but it was stable. It hung in the air, a rectangle of quiet impossibility, cool and indifferent. A kinetic bolt struck it. The bolt did not bounce. It was not blocked. It simply passed into the page and vanished, as if it had entered a reality where it had never been fired at all. The page of Grey held.

"Good," Julius said. "Now make it bigger. And hold it."

For the next hour, that was my only work. I stood in the center of the room, enduring the relentless barrage of kinetic bolts, and practiced weaving. I learned to make the page wider, thicker. I learned that it required a state of constant, active balance, a mental posture as demanding as any physical stance. The moment my focus wavered, the moment I tried to force it, the page would collapse.

"Excellent," Valeria commented after I successfully held a shield the size of a door for a full minute. "Magical architecture. Far more dignified than sweating. Can you build me a nicer sheath?"

'The synthesis of foundational elements into a stable, complex construct,' Erebus noted. 'This is the logical progression.'

"The lesson is not the shield," Julius said, dispelling the bolts with a wave of his hand. "The shield is the vocabulary. Now, you will write a sentence." He pointed to a small, stone cube on the floor near his feet. "Move that cube to the other side of the room, without it crossing the space in between."

I stared at him. "A fold? A wormhole?"

"A sentence," he corrected. "A sentence that says, 'This object is now here, not there.' The space in between is just punctuation."

This was a different order of magnitude. A shield was a static defense. This required actively manipulating the geometry of the room. I tried. I focused on the cube, then on a spot twenty feet away. I tried to weave a page of Grey that connected the two points. It was like trying to thread a needle in an earthquake. My first three attempts failed, the Grey collapsing into useless dust.

"You are thinking about the path," Julius critiqued. "Stop it. There is no path. There is only 'here' and 'there.' Make them touch."

I took a breath. I stopped thinking about the space, the distance, the how. I focused on the two points as a single, paradoxical truth. I wove a page of Grey, not as a bridge, but as a fold, creasing the paper of the world until the two points were adjacent. A shimmering, vertical seam, no wider than my hand, appeared over the cube. An identical seam appeared on the far side of the room. I gave a small, mental push. The cube slid into the seam and vanished. A moment later, it slid out of the other seam and settled on the floor.

I let the fold collapse, my head swimming with the effort.

"Better," Julius said. "Your sentence was clumsy, but the grammar was sound. Again."

We drilled that for another hour. I moved the cube. I moved my sheath. I moved a loose stone from the floor. Each time, the fold became easier to create, more stable. I was no longer just tearing pages to dodge. I was folding them to rewrite the layout of the room.

"Final test," Julius said. "Create a structure. Weave multiple pages together. Give me a corner."

This was the final synthesis. I had learned to make a page. I had learned to fold a page. Now I had to make them work together. I planted my feet, my mind holding the lessons of stillness, balance, and quiet insistence. I wove a page of Grey, a five-foot square of stable reality, and held it vertically in the air. Then, my mind screaming with the strain, I wove a second page, perpendicular to the first, and stitched its edge to the first one.

A perfect, ninety-degree corner of impossible Grey stood in the center of the room. It was a solid, undeniable piece of architecture made of nothing. It held for a full ten seconds before I lost my focus and it dissolved.

I stood, panting, sweat dripping from my brow. I was more exhausted than I had been after any physical spar. Julius walked over and stood where the corner had been. He looked at the empty air, then at me.

"You have learned to write a new kind of sentence," he said. "One made of space. This is Grey Weaving. It is the beginning of true mastery. Rest. Tomorrow, we will learn how to make your words mean something."

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