beauty in the breaking
#2
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     Training his mind was as much a part of his routine as training his body. Both Fatin and Tristan had grounded these ideals into him, and he honored them as he honored his birth-parents. He had spent the morning with a pen and paper, taking notes to himself on the layout of the land. Finished with that, he had dropped the work off with his father (whom had surprisingly, been home—albeit it sleeping) and headed to the shore.
     Now, perched on a large stone, he looked like a peculiar sculpture. One hand was held out, the other near his head. One foot was midair, and he balanced precariously, eyes shut. With slow patience he moved his limbs, switching one foot for the other, one hand for the next. At this point, the sharp crack of fabric tore him from his meditation, and he stumbled, just barely catching his balance. Both eyes opened and he sought the source with a frown—only to find it in the form of a young girl moving along the shore. A bark signaled his presence, and he waved her over, interested I why such a young girl was out by herself.




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