> "Power is not given. It is not stolen. It is mastered. And once mastered, the world obeys."
The voice was old, not in years — but in weight. The kind of voice that had said this sentence many times before, yet each time as if it still mattered.
Rain struck the stone roof overhead. Below it, a boy sat cross-legged before a wide, cracked mural.
The mural showed two figures frozen mid-motion. One stood tall, hand raised toward the sky. The other knelt, head bowed low — not in submission, but in defiance.
> "The man who stood was Talhar Dren. His Praxis was 'Raise the Hand.' When he lifted it, armies froze, tides halted, even truth itself held still."
The old teacher paused. Let the words settle.
> "The woman who knelt was Saelen Rhyne. Her Praxis was 'Kneel.' When she bowed, crowns fell from heads, oaths dissolved, and the pride of gods cracked like porcelain."
The boy blinked. "And they killed each other?"
"No." The teacher turned to him. "They never moved again. Her kneeling canceled his raise. His raising canceled her kneel. They are still there, locked in the gesture."
A silence fell. The mural's cracks seemed to breathe.
"Is that really how Praxis works?" the boy asked.
The teacher grunted. "It's not how. It's why."
He stood slowly, cane tapping the floor.
> "Every Praxian is built around one act. Not a weapon, not a spell — a motion. A breath. A strike. A word. Something simple. Done so well, so perfectly, that the world bends for it."
> "Your Praxis is your law. Your sword. Your name. You don't get to choose lightly."
> "Because once chosen… it chooses you back."
The boy looked back at the mural, then down at his own trembling hand.
"I don't know what I'm good at," he whispered.
"You don't need to be good," the old man said, stepping out into the rain. "You just need to be obsessed."
Lightning flashed behind the mural.
And the boy was left staring at the image of power and surrender — both frozen, both eternal.
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