She moved through her routine without thinking. Hair tied back. Sleeves rolled. Floorboards silent. Her mother was already downstairs, she could hear the gentle rhythm of pestle on wood — probably crushing Pecha bark for another calming salve. Littleroot’s medicine stock rotated faster than its people did.
Ayra strapped her practice wrap around her left wrist, thumbed the knot tight, then paused. On her desk lay a folded strip of red cloth, worn from age but still clean — a leftover from one of her earliest Kokira drills. She tucked it into her sash without a word and slipped out the door.
The town had a quiet rhythm to it. Littleroot didn’t bustle — it hummed. Ayra nodded to old Halen as he sat on his porch, whittling wood without ever seeming to finish anything. A small Zigzagoon darted across her path, stopped to sniff at her boots, then ran on with its striped tail bobbing like a leaf in water.
She passed a rusted trail sign marking the edge of Route 101. The letters had been repainted twice in the last year. Below the standard “Caution: Wild Pokémon” warning was a second line, hand-carved by someone local:
“Be known before you’re near.”
Ayra had read it a hundred times, but it still caught her eye. It was part proverb, part survival tip — the kind of saying that came up in school more often than multiplication tables.
The dojo sat just uphill from the town’s center, tucked between a slope of windworn stones and a crumbling Ranger memorial arch. It wasn’t large — barely more than a cabin with an open-air platform and a thick curtain instead of a door. But the moment Ayra stepped inside, the scent of worn wood, sweat, and pressed ashroot grounded her.
Teacher Hael sat cross-legged at the far end, a long cloth rolled across his lap. His white hair was braided down the back in a thick coil, and his eyes were half-lidded in something between rest and listening. Beside him stood Koro — the dojo’s Lucario. Tall, scarred, unmoving. He didn’t turn his head, but Ayra knew he’d registered her the second she stepped across the threshold.
She bowed. Low and clean. The way she’d been taught.
“Your breath is late today,” Hael said softly, not unkindly.
“I had a slow start,” Ayra replied, eyes down. “The air was thick this morning.”
Hael nodded once. Koro stepped forward, not to challenge her, but to take position across from her on the training mat. His posture was loose, non-threatening — yet every line of his body seemed coiled with quiet power.
Ayra drew her stance.
Feet grounded.
Hands open — not empty.
Koro matched her stance in silence.
Ayra felt the shift in air pressure between them — not aggressive, not urgent, but present. In Kokira, they called that moment the mirror pull: when your posture invited the other to respond, not react. She adjusted her footing, shoulders relaxed, hands angled open, palms inward. One breath in. One out. Wait.
Then motion.
Koro shifted — a short, deliberate step sideways, then another. Ayra mirrored him, not perfectly, but close. His rhythm was clean and loose, not a test of force, but of patience. When he pivoted suddenly with a sweeping arm, she saw it coming. She dropped low, rotated her heel, and parried the invisible arc between them.
You don’t control the space. You respond to it.
Hael’s voice echoed from lessons past. Ayra tightened her core, adjusted her elbow. She remembered the first time she’d tried this drill, when Koro had swept her off her feet without even shifting his weight. She’d landed hard on her shoulder, and Hael hadn’t said a word — just waited for her to rise. That was the lesson.
A scuffle at the curtain drew her attention.
Three other students shuffled in — two younger, one older. She recognized them from school. The younger ones looked half-asleep, robes misaligned and hair tangled from rushing. The older boy, Heren, nodded at her in greeting as he took position near the back, already falling into Kokira stance with practiced ease.
Koro didn’t look away from Ayra. He stepped forward now — slow, methodical — inviting escalation.
She responded with a spiral movement, arms flowing into a defense pattern meant to redirect, not stop. Koro flowed with her, never clashing directly. This was a communication drill, not a spar.
There are no battle cries in Kokira. Only breath and response.
As they moved, Ayra let her thoughts drift — not enough to lose form, but enough to feel her own body from the outside. She had dreams. Big ones. Maybe too big for Littleroot.
She wanted to travel, yes. But more than that, she wanted to not fear what lay beyond the trail markers. She wanted to step into wild routes without someone telling her she wasn’t ready. Without her mother’s quiet looks. Without her classmates’ “maybe next year” jokes.
She wanted to trust herself.
And be trusted in return.
Koro stopped suddenly.
Not with a pose, not with a strike — just stillness. Ayra froze too, unsure if she’d missed a cue. But then she saw it — his right paw, held open at his side, palm facing her. His way of acknowledging a balance point.
She bowed again. He mirrored it.
"Strong breath, clearer rhythm," Hael said behind her. "You’re listening better now."
Ayra stepped back to the side of the mat and wiped her forehead. Heren began his drill next, the two younger students fumbling into loose imitation beside him. They weren't terrible, but they lacked control — all elbows and flinching feet.
She found herself watching them with a quiet sort of empathy.
Kokira ended like it began — in silence.
After the final bows and the slow unrolling of the floor mats, Ayra left the dojo with the red wrap tucked back into her sash. The morning sun had climbed just enough to sting her eyes when she stepped outside, painting long shadows from the stone slope. Littleroot was waking faster now — more doors open, more wind-spun chimes, and the distant clatter of someone dragging a berry crate across cobblestone.
She took the longer path home. Not for the view, but for the quiet.
The route curved around a grove of thin-leafed trees, where wild Seedot sometimes gathered near the roots. One of them was perched on a stump, wobbling with the breeze. It watched her. She didn’t stop.
“Be known before you’re near.”
Ayra raised a hand, fingers relaxed, palm visible. No threat. No ask. The Seedot blinked slowly, then went back to its slow, swaying rhythm. She smiled to herself.
Back home, the smell of warm grain and fried leaves greeted her. Her mother had already laid out breakfast — two bowls, still steaming. The house was always quietest when Eran was away.
Ayra washed, changed into her school tunic, and ate quickly. Maren said little — just a passing, “Don’t forget your datapack,” and a nod toward the satchel by the door.
She was halfway out before her mother added, “And your voice, Ayra.”
Ayra paused, turned back.
“You’ll need it today,” Maren said. “Even if you trust your body, they won’t.”
Ayra gave a small nod. She understood. Today wasn’t Kokira. Today was the Trust Ritual showcase.
The schoolyard at Littleroot’s learning hall wasn’t paved or painted — just packed earth lined with shaded benches and open posts where posters peeled slowly under weather. A well-worn message board near the entrance showed upcoming field trips, berry rotation guides, and faded drawings from last year’s spring project: “What Makes a Good Partner?”
Ayra stood just outside the ring of students beginning to cluster for morning announcements. She recognized most of them. A few were from her year — others from a year above or below. All of them would be involved in the ritual today, even if some only watched.
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
"Mixed-year showcase," she remembered from the schedule. "Trust before strategy."
Kaela was already here, arms crossed, stance wide like she was trying to own the entire yard. She wore her confidence like a loose scarf — casual, but meant to be noticed. A younger student approached her with something scribbled on a notepad; Kaela answered, then dismissed him with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Ayra didn't approach. Not yet.
Nearby, Tomas was flipping a coin back and forth across his knuckles. He glanced up when he saw her, offered a quiet nod, then looked away just as quickly. That was how he usually greeted people — like he was checking in without wanting to leave a trace.
Ayra stepped into the group, backpack slung high, and waited.
The bell chime was soft — not a siren, just three long notes from the weathered speaker post. A teacher appeared in the doorway and waved them in.
The learning hall was cool inside, the air lightly scented by ink, pressed leaves, and the faint hum of warmed light-panels mounted to the ceiling. Their classroom wasn’t large — maybe twenty students on a busy day — but the desks had been pushed aside to open the center floor for the Trust Ritual drills.
Ayra took her seat near the middle. Kaela leaned back on the far right, Tomas two desks from the window, half-turned as usual to keep one eye on both the room and the door.
Tactics born early, Ayra thought. Even if he doesn't know it yet.
Their instructor — a stocky man with silver-shot hair and eyes that scanned like they’d seen too much — opened the morning with a phrase written in chalk on the backboard:
“Trust What You Can Question.”
“Who can tell me what that means?” he asked, folding his arms without turning.
A younger student raised a hand. “You can’t trust someone who gets mad when you ask things?”
“Close,” the instructor said. “Let’s stretch it.”
Ayra raised her hand, not high, just enough to be noticed. “If you can't ask why something is right, you don't know if it is.”
The instructor nodded. “Very good. That’s the root. Not just in this room — out there.” He gestured to the window, beyond which the trails of Route 101 shimmered faintly in the sun. “There are people who will tell you to trust them because they’ve got a badge. Or a lab coat. Or a clever mouth. You should always ask — why them? Why now? Why this Pokémon?”
He looked over the class. “That’s part of what today is. Trust — not command. If a Pokémon doesn’t feel safe with you, what you want doesn’t matter.”
He clapped his hands once. “Time to warm up. We start in pairs. Mirrors first. Then partner swap. Pokémon rotation after that.”
Chairs scraped. Bags were shifted. Ayra rose and headed toward the open space, her Kokira instincts already scanning the motion around her.
Trust isn’t a gift, she thought, stepping onto the cleared floor.
It’s a test. And not just for them.
The classroom had changed — not in structure, but in intention. Desks against the walls, mats laid in the center, and a low platform near the front where a teaching assistant stood beside a set of marked Poké Balls.
“Each student will rotate through two Pokémon,” the instructor said. “Different types. Different instincts. The goal is not contact. The goal is clarity.”
He paced as he spoke. “You begin with mirrored posture. Then body language. Then — and only then — ask permission.”
“Questions?”
No one raised a hand. Everyone knew the drill.
Ayra was paired with Tomas first.
Neither spoke. They didn’t need to. Kokira drills had trained most of them to recognize neutral posture — straight spine, open hands, relaxed gaze. They mirrored each other twice, pivoted slowly, then stepped back. The instructor nodded. No correction. No praise.
They moved on.
Ayra was third in line.
The teaching assistant handed her a Poké Ball, already synced to the day’s internal program: two-minute timer, no command functions, scan-only. She stepped into the marked zone and opened it with a practiced flick.
The light hit the floor, curled, and gave shape to a Skiddo — its horns still short, fur tangled with bits of straw. It blinked slowly and looked at her, unafraid, but distant.
It’s been here before, Ayra thought.
She began as she’d practiced.
Feet still. Hands open. One forward, palm visible — no threat, no ask. She kept her gaze soft, focused just between the Skiddo’s eyes, not into them. Then: a short hand raise, followed by a nod.
The Skiddo flared its nostrils, gave a quiet snort.
No move forward. No backing away.
She waited.
Five seconds. Then ten.
I’m here. You decide.
The Skiddo stepped forward — not far. A meter. Then leaned its head slightly, sniffed the air. That was enough.
The instructor called time.
She backed off, bowed. The Skiddo turned toward the assistant with an easy gait, ears flicking once before it was returned to its ball.
Kaela stepped forward when called, her posture sharp and clean. Confident. She caught the Poké Ball one-handed and opened it in a single motion — too fast, Ayra thought.
The Buizel formed in a burst of light, tail twitching, body low. It scanned the room, then locked eyes with Kaela.
She mirrored her stance. Hands open. Eyes between the eyes.
She’s doing it right, Ayra thought. But something felt... off.
Kaela’s breathing was too shallow. Her gaze too focused. The tension sat behind her eyes, in the tightness of her jaw. From this distance, Ayra could see it — so the Buizel certainly could.
Kaela raised her hand, then extended it slightly.
The Buizel lowered its body. Growled — short, sharp.
Kaela didn’t back off. She held her ground.
That was the mistake.
The Buizel darted forward — not a full attack, just a bluff charge. But it was enough. Kaela flinched, pulled her hand back hard, and reset her posture mid-move.
Too late.
The Buizel barked once, turned away, and sat down facing the wall.
Time.
Silence followed. No laughter. No judgment — just the kind of silence that told you everyone saw it.
The instructor gave no reprimand. Just said, “Thank you. Return the Pokémon.”
Kaela did. Her hands were steady, but her mouth was tight. She stepped out of the zone and returned to the wall without looking at anyone.
Ayra exhaled through her nose. She didn’t enjoy seeing Kaela stumble — but there was something telling about the way Kaela’s body refused to back down, even when her instincts said otherwise.
The assistant handed her the next Poké Ball with both hands — slower this time, more carefully. Ayra caught the subtle cue: this one would be harder.
Not danger, she reminded herself. Just... caution.
She stepped back into the ring, held the ball steady, and released.
Light shimmered and twisted — not in the soft roll of a Skiddo, but in a sharp flare that stretched before collapsing into a long, coiled form. A Seviper, its scales gleaming with the oil-sheen of perfect tension, lifted its head and scanned the room with a flick of its tongue.
The air felt different.
Quieter. Tighter.
Ayra moved slowly. No shift in weight. No sudden breath.
She began the ritual again — stance neutral, eyes soft, hands visible. The Seviper didn’t flinch, didn’t growl. It just watched.
This one isn’t afraid, she realized.
It’s evaluating me.
She raised her right hand slightly — pause — then the nod.
The Seviper’s tail coiled tighter.
Ayra didn’t step closer. Didn’t ask more. Instead, she performed the gesture of retreat — palm drawing back while she slowly shook her head.
“I see you. I will not press.”
For a moment, nothing.
Then — movement. A slow turn of the head, a slight lowering of the coil. Not an approach, but a softening. The Seviper blinked once. Then again.
Not trust. But respect.
Time was called.
Ayra stepped back and bowed. She did not smile.
The Seviper turned toward the assistant without cue. Returned to its ball.
The final round of students passed with varying degrees of grace and confusion. A few Pokémon ignored their partners entirely. One Mudbray fell asleep. One Shinx wouldn’t stop pacing. That was normal. This wasn’t about training. It was about connection under observation — a kind of emotional honesty most of them weren’t used to yet.
The students filtered out in slow, uneven waves — no fanfare, just the weight of reflection. The sun had moved high enough to bake the stone steps outside, casting long shadow bars under the railing. Ayra sat near the shade of the storage alcove, pulling a berry wedge from her bag.
Tomas joined her without asking.
“You did well,” he said.
Ayra shrugged. “The Skiddo helped.”
He nodded. “The Seviper didn’t kill you. That’s a win.”
She almost smiled. “It was... measured. It watched more than it moved.”
“That’s you, isn’t it?” he said, chewing the corner of a leaf-wrapped snack. “All mirror. No flare.”
Ayra didn’t reply. She wasn’t sure if it was praise or not.
A rustle behind them — Kaela. Still sharp-shouldered, but quieter now. She stopped a meter away, arms crossed.
“I didn’t expect it to charge,” she said.
Ayra looked up. “It didn’t.”
Kaela frowned. “Felt like it.”
Tomas leaned back against the wall. “Maybe it just saw something you didn’t.”
Kaela’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her voice stayed low. “I did the ritual right. Hands, gaze, pace. All of it.”
“Ritual’s not math,” Ayra said gently. “You don’t pass it by being correct.”
Silence.
Then Kaela sighed. Not angrily — more like someone letting out a breath they hadn’t realized they’d been holding all morning.
“Whatever,” she muttered. “It was a Buizel. Not a Dragonite.”
She walked off, not storming, not sulking — just... recalibrating.
Tomas waited a few seconds, then looked at Ayra. “She’ll get over it.”
“She always does,” Ayra said. “Just never quietly.”
They sat in the warmth for a while. Neither said much after that.
But neither left.
The sun slipped into its late gold by the time Ayra finished her errands.
She’d stopped by the apothecary to pick up a fresh satchel of bark strips for her mother. Maren’s work relied on a steady rotation of herbs, powders, and dried berries, and Ayra knew most of the ingredients by scent before she could spell them.
Then a quick run to the supply coop — mostly just salt and grit for the outdoor stones — followed by a short visit to the corner stall that sold dried rations shaped like Pokémon claws and paws. She bought one. Not for anyone in particular. Just… maybe for someone later.
The paths home were quieter now. Less birdsong. More wind.
Her front door creaked when it closed. The warmth inside felt heavy — like the house had been holding its breath all day. Her mother wasn’t in sight. Probably in the back garden, tending the Sitrus vines.
She stepped into the kitchen, set the bark strips on the table—
“Hey, runt.”
She turned, startled — then smiled.
Eran was leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, boots still dusty. He looked thinner than she remembered, taller maybe, and his hair had grown out along the edges. But it was him. Same sharp grin. Same relaxed eyes that missed nothing.
“You're back early,” Ayra said.
“Mm,” he shrugged. “Academy break. Thought I’d drop in before I head to Slateport next week.”
She sat at the table. He joined her, plucking a dried claw-snack from her bag and tossing it into his mouth without asking. Classic.
“Trust ritual today?” he asked after a moment.
She nodded.
“Go well?”
“Mostly,” she said. “Skiddo was calm. Seviper was... observant.”
He raised an eyebrow. “They gave you a Seviper?”
Ayra smirked. “Guess they thought I could handle it.”
Eran leaned back. “Good. You should know how to hold your space with something that can kill you.”
She looked at him. “That’s a weird compliment.”
“It's a real one.” He paused. “Kaela freak out?”
Ayra hesitated, then nodded.
“She’ll bounce back,” he said, softer now. “She’s loud, not fragile.”
A beat passed. The kitchen ticked with the sound of wind tapping on the windowpane.
“You ready?” he asked. Not about tomorrow. Not about class.
She looked down, then back up. “Not yet. But I’m close.”
Eran smiled. Not big — just enough to show he believed her.
“Close is a good place to be,” he said. Then:
“C’mon. Let’s go walk the edge. You can tell me about this Seviper. I want details.”
Ayra stood. Her body was tired, but her chest felt lighter.
She followed him out the door.