The training grounds smell like rain and old stone.

Not the dramatic kind of rain with thunder and all but the one that soaks into the grass and makes the air feel so clean. The sky over the Braddock estate is pale and gray, and somewhere beyond the hedges birds argue about something unimportant. You flex your fingers, a little nervous, feeling the cool leather of borrowed gloves and the weight of expectation on your shoulders.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Brian says kindly, noticing the crease in your brow. You laugh a little, embarrassed.

“I don’t have magic. Or powers. Or… anything special.” The words slip out before you can stop them.

Brian tilts his head, considering you like a teacher who genuinely wants to understand. He steps closer, boots crunching softly against gravel.

“You know,” he says, “I’ve met sorcerers who could bend reality and still froze when someone needed help.” He gestures gently toward your chest. “And I’ve met people like you. People who step forward anyway.”

The wind moves through the trees, carrying the scent of damp leaves. You feel it brush your face, cool and grounding. Brian hands you a simple wooden staff, nothing enchanted or glowing. It’s smooth from use, warm from his hands.

“This,” he says, “is just a tool. Like magic. Like strength.” He meets your eyes. “Being a hero isn’t about what you wield. It’s about why you stand. I'm sure you know why.”

You take the staff. It’s heavier than you expect, solid and real. Your palms tingle.

Brian guides you through basic movements. Footwork. Balance. Awareness. He reminds you to breathe, to feel where your weight settles, to listen to the space around you. Every correction is gentle, every success quietly acknowledged.

“Again,” he says with a small smile when you stumble. “Heroes fall all the time. Getting back up is the impressive part.”