Pain was an efficient motivator, and the boy learned quickly. It helped that Eurya, once she had adjusted her methods to accommodate the boy's vast inexperience, was an effective, if brutal, teacher. By his third attempt, the boy realized that his teacher was using the same set of opening moves each fight. By the fifth, he had started to mirror them, rather than just futilely deflect her strikes. He focused on the same principles as his family's techniques, searching for that link, that connection to Memory, as he carefully mirrored the movements of his mentor.

Two blades danced in nearly identical motions. They clashed, and—

Connection.

A tiny branch, cut off a dying tree in the desert. It was chosen by a being of enormous power on a whim, and wielded with prodigious skill. It was a fragile, broken thing, held together only by the will of its wielder.

The Memory of Eurya's weapon whispered its history into the boy's mind. Useless facts, made more irrelevant by the woman in question. Reading Memory proved to be a fatal distraction, as Eurya jabbed the boy in his chest before his mind could right itself. It was the fastest loss he'd yet taken.

"Again," Eurya stated, her lips quirking into a sharp smile.

The next attempt made ten, and as their blades clashed, the boy reached out once more. This time, he let the Memory fade into the background, and focused on his own defense. Eurya's heavy blows pushed him back further and further, until loose sand swept his feet out from beneath him.

But he had fought no worse than his earlier attempts. Now, he just needed to multitask better. Eurya wouldn't deem the technique as 'learned' until he could pluck out some useful information from the Memory of his foe. The weapon was useless, just a random twig, chosen because it was more or less straight. It could tell him nothing about the style that his teacher was using, nor anything else useful. Its Memory with her began mere hours ago. He needed to dig deeper. Beyond the weapon itself, and on to the way that it was wielded. He needed to find where intent met Memory.

On his twentieth attempt, he found the connection.

A kata from a distant land, meant more as a showpiece than for actual combat. Each strike flows into another, like the crashing waves of an ocean.They follow a set pattern, mimicking the twists and turns of a specific river that leads into the sea. It was created to honor a local water god.

The boy's eyes blazed with satisfaction, as he resonated with the Memory of Eurya's sword kata. His limbs fell into a oddly familiar pattern, perfecting his weak attempts at mimicry. He matched his sword against his teacher's, strike for strike, blow for blow. This was how the style was meant to be displayed, the Memory whispered. Two warriors, crashing against each other, in a perfectly coordinated dance.

Two warriors of equal skill.

He was not equal to his teacher in any way, and the Memory of the sword kata could not make up for the gap between them. He had forgotten, somehow, that this was supposed to be a spar. Her sword slammed against his with more strength than Memory told him to expect, and his resonance shattered like glass. He stumbled, and fell, clutching his head.

"Too deep, Nicos," Eurya said blandly. "Always too deep. Resonating with any Memory can be overwhelming, if you are not careful."

"Sorry, teacher," the boy groaned, flailing ineffectually in the sand. He clumsily made it back to his feet, vision still spinning. He had resonated with the Memory, looking for a weakness in the kata, but he'd moved too quickly. He hadn't been ready, and the Memory had overwhelmed him.

She clicked her tongue. "Reckless, and impatient. Control is paramount. You mustn't make the same mistakes."

He nodded, more to himself than her. "I will go slower, in the future."

"And think more on what it is you are delving into," Eurya chided. "Your strategy was correct, but you failed to properly act on the information given to you. Even the lightest touch of Memory should have told you that my sword kata was created as a form of worship for a god. Did you think its intent would be weak?"

"I didn't think at all," the boy admitted. "I simply pressed onward, happy that I had succeeded."

She jabbed a finger against his temple, making him wince.

"The mind is a warriors greatest weapon," Eurya said.

"Yes teacher." The boy stepped away from her, and hefted his blade. "Again?" The thirst to improve was almost overwhelming.

His teacher gestured to the sky, and the boy glanced upwards. The Twins were descending, making the latter half of their journey across the sky. Daylight was turning to darkness. He had hours, at best.

"Time is short," Eurya said simply, "and there is much to learn."

"You are not ready for casting," the Keeper evaluated frankly.

The boy's shoulders slumped, and the blind man laughed.

"Don't worry. There's a road to follow for things like this. Take it a step at a time."

Always one step at a time. The boy did not roll his eyes, but it was a close thing. His teachers tended to echo each other, in their lessons.

"Where resonance is using Memory to enhance yourself," the Keeper continued, unaware or uncaring of his student's inner thoughts, "casting is pushing that Memory out, to affect the world itself, or others in it. It lets someone who has the Memory of being burned, share that experience with his enemies." He flexed his palm, and a ball of fire flashed into existence. The boy stared at it, enthralled by the blatant display of power. "It is external, rather than internal, and requires a certain mastery of self." The Keeper's hand closed, snuffing out the flame. "I will teach you the theory, though I expect you'll make little progress before next we meet."

The boy couldn't help the eager smile that spread across his face. "Where do I start?"

"With the basics, naturally," the Keeper replied. "The simplest, easiest, and most common use for casting is a technique that warriors call pressure. It is nothing more than summoning the Memory of oneself, and pushing it out into the world."

"The memory of oneself?" The boy's brow furrowed. "Like, my self-image?"

"Exactly that," the blind man agreed.

"It sounds simple," the boy said, nervously. It had been trained into him to understand that nothing was ever simple.

"Perhaps, in theory," the Keeper acknowledged.

"But not in practice," the boy guessed.

The older man grinned. "And in practice. The trick, as it is with everything, is control. Any idiot can broadcast his existence to the world. It can't truly be called casting until you can do so while your Memory is clashing against another."

"A clash?"

"Pressure is most often used as a bludgeon, to weaken the Memory of another. It's..." the Keeper seemed to chew on his words, "a comparison between two facts. There is no boasting, no cheap ego to buffer oneself up. It's not a trick, nor a mind game, but the simple pitting of one person, against another."

"How can that be possible, when perception can shape Memory?" the boy asked. "Surely our own self-perception is flawed."

"Ah, and there's the issue," the Keeper agreed, snapping his fingers. "Those little lies we tell ourselves? The half-truths that we use, to disguise the worst of our own personalities? When you push those out into the world, they are so very obvious to others. As I said, it requires a certain mastery of self. To not look like a buffoon, that is."

"Ah," the boy said simply.

"More importantly," the Keeper continued, "when your foe knows the same technique, they clash directly against each other. It's less violent than a physical confrontation, but no less damaging. It takes a rare kind of person to know, with utter conviction, that they are weaker than their enemy, yet remain standing. And an exceptional one, to still be capable of fighting back."

The boy was silent. He was weak and inexperienced. Learning this technique seemed like it wouldn't benefit him for a very long time.

"Don't be so sure," the Keeper chided, when the boy raised this issue. "The ability to shrug off a superior pressure is its own kind of strength. Most people experienced enough to notice such a thing, are wise enough to understand what that means."

The boy cocked his head. "What does it mean?"

"It means that they'll have no inherent Memory advantage over you," the Keeper explained. "Those echoes of past deeds that follow the strong? They'll wash against you like a gentle breeze. Stubborn self-confidence can get you far in this world."

The boy liked the sound of that.

"I want that," he said. "I want to stand strong in the face of gods."

The Keeper smiled. "Then we'd best get started.

Getting started, it turned out, involved lots of meditation. The boy was not entirely unfamiliar with such a thing. Learning his family's Memory technique had involved a great deal of it at first. Huge swathes of time spent pondering the feeling of swinging a sword, until it became a natural part of his thoughts.

Pressure was a little more complicated. The boy needed to master himself, before he could even attempt the technique. To do otherwise would be almost suicidally foolhardy. He had no desire to broadcast his own weaknesses to every enemy he meets. So, meditation. The Keeper guided him through his first attempt, slowly explaining how the boy needed to identify major points in his life, and understand the decisions he made in them.

Unfortunately, there was little time for further instruction. Night fell, and his teachers were leaving. The boy hadn't thought much about it, until the moment it arrived. He would be left here, in these unfamiliar lands, without guide or direction. It sparked fear in him, but also eagerness.

This was his chance to prove his own worth. He would not have the protection of two Ancients traveling beside him. Survival would be in his own hands. It was the most terrifying thought he'd ever had in his life.

He couldn't wait to get started.

The cloud manta was unbottled, and it spread itself across the desert sand. The once enormous creature had shrunk dramatically in size, barely capable of carrying three passengers. The boy gave its damp skin an awkward pat of farewell, before bowing to each of his mentors.

The Keeper smiled warmly, and gave him a nod, before climbing onto the back of the strange beast. Eurya quickly joined him, smirking down from on high.

"Remember Nicos, your destination is Bastion, at the edge of the desert. Keep the wind at your back, and travel to where the Twins sleep. Move quickly, trust your instincts, and do not hesitate should danger find you." She grinned at him, as the cloud manta's great wings began to beat. Her voice barely reached him over the roaring wind. "Don't die, little fledgling, and don't disappoint me!"

The manta left the ground with massive boom of displaced air, kicking sand and dust into the air. By the time it cleared, they were no longer in sight. The skies were clear and the desert was dark. The Lonely Goddess Selene hung high above, doing her best to pierce the night. The boy had a sword, the clothes on his back, and himself.

He set out across the sands, alone once more.